Then I see a picture of him, with someone else, smiling, back at feast, in the tavern, like that whole engagement thing with me never happened. Yet I sit here with a whole chunk of my life missing, a gaping span of years where my life stopped, my education stopped, my friendships put on hold.
It makes me want to desperately put it all in writing, lay the guilt on the paper with the blackness of ink, exposed in the whiteness of text. I want them to read it, those who blamed me for his leaving solar, for his burned bridges, for his fear. I want them to know the whole story, my story as well as his, not the one written after the fact, after I was gone. Not that anyone cares about it anymore, except me. I never had the chance to speak.
And now I don't know where he's living, what he's doing, if he really is seeing someone new. When I realize how little I know about him anymore, this man I spent four years of my life with, I feel like I've lost control of my own life, too. My stomach gets slippery, like it's going to turn inside-out and my face feels hot, and all the happiness I've rebuilt in my life starts to shake like the buildings in a shanty town in the rumblings of an earthquake.