On the third day after I had left Sarah, I sat on that couch trying to read the same paragraph for the fourth time. A knock came at the door, three quick taps followed by a pause. I assumed it was my brother, who had mentioned stopping by after work, and went to answer without checking the peephole. Sarah stood in the hallway in the clothes she appeared to have worn the previous day, her eyes swollen, her hair tangled, and both hands wrapped around the strap of her purse.
"Hi," she whispered.
I could not answer immediately. A part of me had spent three days waiting to hear her voice, while another part had spent the same three days trying to make sure it could not pull me backward. I had never seen her look so uncertain. She glanced past me toward the apartment as though she expected to recognize something and found nothing familiar.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
"No," I said, not loudly. "We can talk here for a minute."
She flinched and began explaining at once. She said she had been stupid, that she had been drinking, that she had not meant any of it, and that she could not believe I had moved out without telling her. I listened until she ran out of breath. Then I asked the one question I had been asking myself since Sunday: "What did you expect me to do when you said we were over and walked out to meet another man?"
Her eyes filled again. "I expected you to know I didn't mean it," she said.
"You meant it enough to leave."
"I was trying to get a reaction. I was scared of how serious everything had become." She reached toward my arm and stopped when I stepped back.
"Please. I know I hurt you. I'll change. I'll go to therapy. Whatever you want."
I wanted to believe the offer. Four years of love do not disappear because one person has finally said an unforgivable sentence, and it would be easier if they did. I could picture the apartment we had shared, the mornings we used to make coffee together, and the possibility of returning to a life where I knew the names of every scratch on the furniture. But I could also picture myself sitting beside another untouched dinner while Sarah texted someone she would not name.
"I loved you," I said. "I would have kept building a life with you if we were both still doing that. You told me you didn't want it anymore, and you made sure I heard you. I can't undo what you chose just because you're frightened by what it means."
She started crying harder. "What am I supposed to do without you?"
"I don't know," I said. "But I can't be the person who solves that for you now."