He talked about an ordinary day at work until the shaking in my hands stopped. When I thanked him, he said that was what brothers were for. I thought of all the times I had told Sarah the same thing about love and wondered why I had made the promise sound so limitless in one relationship and so healthy in the other. Perhaps the difference was not how much you were willing to do, but whether the person receiving your care could also recognize that you were a person with limits.
The next day I told the front desk at work that Sarah and I were no longer together and that she should not be admitted to see me without an appointment. I felt awful giving the instruction, but my supervisor said it was reasonable. He did not ask me to prove that she was dangerous or that I had been mistreated enough to deserve privacy. He simply said my workplace needed to remain a place where I could do my job.
For the next three days I heard nothing directly from her. My phone stopped lighting up from unfamiliar numbers, and I began to relax in small, tentative ways. I worked, went to the gym, painted a street scene from a photograph I had taken on one of my walks, and made plans with my brother for the weekend. I thought perhaps Sarah had accepted the boundary.
On the third evening, just after I had settled onto the couch with a book, someone knocked on my apartment door. The sound was familiar: three quick taps, a pause, and then two more. I waited long enough to look through the peephole this time. Sarah stood in the hallway with her hands folded in front of her, looking smaller than I remembered.
I considered not opening the door. It would have been reasonable, especially after I had asked her not to contact me again, and for a moment I stood with my hand on the lock wondering whether I owed her even one more minute. Then I heard a faint sound from the hallway, not quite a sob, and I decided I could ask her to leave face-to-face without opening the apartment to her. I unlatched the door but kept the security chain in place.
"Sarah," I said. "You need to go."
She looked up so quickly that a strand of hair fell across her face. She was wearing a faded sweatshirt I did not recognize, and the skin beneath her eyes was dark with exhaustion. I had once known every detail of her morning routine, how long she needed to get ready and which makeup products she reached for when she wanted to look her best. Seeing her now made me understand how completely our daily knowledge of one another had been severed.
"I know," she whispered. "I know I shouldn't be here. I don't have anywhere else to go."
"You can't stay here," I said.
"I'm not asking to stay. Not tonight. I just need five minutes, please. I need you to hear me without interrupting."