The Trick is to Keep Breathing

The trick, you see, is to keep breathing.

Pretend like the arm that’s wrapped so tenderly around you isn’t actually suffocating you, burning you, making you fight to just stay still. Pretend, act, lie, but no matter what, just remember to breathe. It will get you through it.

It’s natural, I think. The way his arms, his touch, those things you once craved, will now sear your skin. It’s not that you don’t love him – you do. At least, you think you do. But laying there, with him curled around you so peacefully, all you will think of is how to escape. Your wide eyes will dart around the dark room like a cornered animal, your mind will reel. Unconsciously, your body will try to contort itself away from his – an inch at most, but it will be enough to quiet you.

You’ll be able to tell that he senses something is wrong. You’ll turn when he tries to kiss you, you’ll pull away when he draws closer. And you’ll know you’re hurting him, and oh, you’ll want to stop. You’ll want to take it all back and you’ll want to make it all better. You’ll humor him and ask him what’s wrong, and he’ll politely reply that he’s not sure – but you both know. You may not want to admit it, but it’s something that you will feel, settling in the pit of your stomach like sand settles in water: somehow, someway, this is your fault.

Don’t try understand this – you won’t. You’ll love him, through all of this you’re still sure of it. But the change was beyond your control, sudden, a rubber band snapping on your wrist: the sting instant and unmistakable, but the sensation still prickling under your skin long after.

Obviously, you’ll find yourself confused. You’ll feel betrayed by your own flesh as you feel it burn treacherously beneath his. You’ll claw your mind to find the answers, the ones that you’re certain that – when you find them – will lift this weight and everything will be the way it was. You’ll cling to The Way It Was, until The Way It Was becomes so distant that not even memories will bring you reprieve. I can only offer you two things then, to latch onto as you lay there; two things to keep you from tearing yourself from the bed and running until your feet are crimson and blue and your legs turn boneless.

One, that relationships are like miniature lives we live. Romances are conceived, experienced, and enjoyed, but one way or another, they too must come to an end.

Two, the trick to surviving this – above anything else – is to keep breathing.