text: 8:45pm &#x200B; I sit on the sofa, you walk through the door and I look up at you, easing my features into a smile. The first lie. You smile back. The second. You're back late, I don't ask why. Maybe I once would have, maybe once you would just have told me. There is food on the table- pasta again. It's getting cold now and you sit down at your place and I sit at mine. Always the same seats. We'll eat together tonight. We could make conversation, laugh like we once would. We don't. I want too. That's not a lie. I wish I could say that I tried then but that would be the third lie. I ask if you'd like a glass of wine, you say "No, thank you." As if we are still strangers. I want to see you smile but I can't think of anything to say. Not a single thing. &#x200B; 9:04pm &#x200B; We clear up in silence, the practiced routine marches on. You wash, I dry. The dishes are done quickly, into the cupboard even quicker. I don't flick water at you, and you wipe the bubbles off your own nose, that was once my job- the gentle touches. We have given up on irrelevant affections which once provide a reassurance. I guess we didn't need that anymore- who else could there be. No room for such things in this tedious routine. &#x200B; 9:13pm &#x200B; There is a dish still lying on the counter and we both reach for it. I catch my fingers against your skin. I shiver- the third lie. You look at me, properly for once. I look back at you. I want to smile and laugh together at the jarring corniness of the situation. A moment passes, you get a little sadder when you realise I will not break this silence. I look away. I should have kissed you then, done anything at all. God, I wish I had, more than almost anything. Yet the silence seems inevitable. In my distraction, I knock the plate from the counter. It breaks. You sigh in exasperation at my clumsiness which you had once found so endearing. You had told me that, years ago. Still, you sigh now, I snap at you. You snap back. Our voices rise to anger, hurling meaningless verbal assaults at each other. I know exactly what to say to push you to fury, I hate that. I stop shouting and apologise- the fourth lie. We never used to argue, we would have laughed and just cleaned up the mess, not phased by such a menial issue. Happy to spend even those few minutes together. We are so tired now, maybe we will take a holiday soon; laugh and dance around the kitchen, maybe I'll remember how to call you 'my love' when 'mine' is the fifth lie. &#x200B; 9:57pm &#x200B; The argument is long over. You're crying again and I want you to stop. I can hear sobs echo from the bathroom, I'll pretend I don't notice like I always do these days. I used to run to you the second you looked sad, always desperate to be your hero and hated to see you hurt. Some things don't change. I would have done anything for you to just stop, except the only thing I could do. So you continue to cry in the bathroom under the pretence of brushing your teeth and I wonder whether you care that I can hear, I hope you don't. I hope you aren't angry at my cowardice. I am sorry. So fucking sorry. I swore to never make you cry, listening and doing nothing is so much worse. I hate myself every second I sit on the edge of our bed and just listen, I'm crying too I think. Neither fact is of any real consequence. I still sit there motionless. &#x200B; 10:00pm &#x200B; You open the bathroom door. Your eyes are dry now, mine are too. I walk past you into the bathroom. I pick up my toothbrush from the edge of our sink. I look at the mirror as I brush. Darkness under my eyes, wrinkles beginning to from across my forehead. I look tired. I wonder if the mirror thinks so too and if you looked into it and thought the same. &#x200B; 10:03pm &#x200B; I get into bed, you are already there. The routine persists as if we are only puppets pulled by some unfeeling puppeteer- moving stiffly. Your head is against your pillow, I mirror your position on mine. We lie there in our bed and we face away, justified by the presence of the books in our hands. I do not reach out to touch you, you don't reach for me either. I would usually try- the sixth lie. I hope you find comfort in the story in your hands, that the characters engage you and make you smile, a little at least. I can't focus on the words. You can't either, I know as much as I wish I didn't. So we lie in silence and pretend that it's because we don't want to talk. &#x200B; 10:34pm &#x200B; You have put your book down. We lie in the dark now, I can feel the heat from your body seeping into the sheets. It does not know the rules of this ritual, this practiced divide. I think of how I used to pull you towards me and how you would laugh. Maybe I would tickle your ribs, I knew exactly where you were most ticklish. I remember how we used to fill this apartment with laughter and I realise I don't remember the last time I heard you properly laugh. The lovely laugh you have which starts as giggles and ends in gasped breaths. It's a bitter thought. I miss you. Even though you are a mere arm's length away and that seems foolish. I could tell you I love you, it wouldn't be a lie. Maybe that is worse. If I didn't love you this wouldn't be so painful. For the millionth time I wonder how we got to this point. Forever used to seem such a short time with you, now it feels so painfully infinite. &#x200B; 11:47pm &#x200B; You should be asleep by now, you're tired. I know you are awake. You say my name, I almost think I've imagined it like some reach my brain has made to relieve myself from my own thoughts. It's a half-whisper- unsure instead of playful. This is not part of the routine. We both know that. &#x200B; You take a deep breath and I feel mine catch at my throat. &#x200B; "I'm so tired of this." You say, it's not so quiet anymore. You have rolled towards me, we face each other now. &#x200B; Fear jumps through me. &#x200B; "Please." It's desperate. I do not know what I am asking for. Anything, I suppose. &#x200B; "Please, what?" You reply, you sound so exhausted, these whispers are so much worse than the crying or the yelling. &#x200B; "Don't" I'm crying a little now, you are too. "We can fix it." &#x200B; The last lie. &#x200B; You pause, not for as long as I hope, I only wish for a few more seconds of this normality, how we have found comfort in it, despite it's fragility. &#x200B; It is about to break. &#x200B; "We can't do this anymore." &#x200B; "I know." And it's the truth. I do know. We can't keep doing this, tearing ourselves apart. What I don't know how to live without you. It's a habit I will force myself to learn. We're crying harder now, I'm still looking at you, I always looked for you. &#x200B; All at once we are two strangers lying in the same bed but we have been for so long, really. &#x200B; "I love you." You say. It's a justification in some strange way. &#x200B; "I love you." The words feel like they mean nothing, I've failed to prove them true. I remember you making me swear to never add a 'too', you'd say it was too much like an agreement instead of a confession or a promise. One last unbroken promise, a beautiful irony. I scoot towards you and you towards me with a forgotten ease. I kiss you then, too late and we both know it. I savour it still; it feels like relief. It doesn't make me feel butterflies or send electricity through me like it once did but it's still you and that has always been enough. We will fall asleep together for the last time, you run your hands through my hair in patterns which used to be unpredictable and I don't lean in to kiss you again, I simply wrap my arms around you and hope you stop crying. You smile at me, a real smile for once and I'm forced to look away; I still love you and I can only take so much. I smile back, though. I hope it looks real enough. "I'm sorry" and then "I love you", decidedly separate because I will never be sorry for loving you. I repeat the words over and over against your skin as though if I say it enough it will matter whether I'm sorry or not.