There it was, closer to the truth than anything she had said in weeks. She had wanted the security of our relationship available while she tested a different life. I could understand the fear of making a choice and discovering it was wrong, but I could not accept being kept in reserve against that possibility. The realization hurt, though less than I might have expected.
"Then why are you here?" I asked.
Sarah looked away. "Because I don't have anywhere else to go."
Neither of us spoke for several seconds. A neighbor's footsteps sounded on the stairs, then faded as a door opened on the landing below. I could hear the faint electric buzz of the hallway light above us. For some reason those ordinary details made the conversation feel more final than any dramatic accusation could have done.
"I'm sorry you're in that position," I said. "I mean that. But you can't solve it by making me your boyfriend again."
"You were supposed to love me no matter what," she said, and now the tears were coming with anger. "That's what you promised."
"I promised to love you," I answered. "I didn't promise to agree to being treated badly. Love doesn't mean someone loses the right to leave."
She stared at me with a kind of disbelief that had once frightened me into changing my mind. "You are punishing me," she said. "You enjoy seeing me like this."
I shook my head. "I don't enjoy any of it. I wanted us to be happy together. I just can't keep paying for that hope with the rest of my life."
She wiped her face. "I hate you," she whispered.
The words hurt because a part of me still remembered the first time she told me she loved me. I remembered the smell of rain on the pavement outside the library, her hands cold in mine, and the absolute certainty I felt that I had found somebody extraordinary. The person standing in the hallway now was the same person, and I wished I knew how to carry both memories without making one cancel the other.
"I know you're angry," I said.
"You'll never find somebody who loves you like I did."
I looked at her for a long moment. "I hope I find a love that doesn't need to make me feel small," I answered. "And I hope one day you find a way to love somebody without making them responsible for your entire life."
She lowered her head and began crying again, more quietly this time. The anger seemed to leave her as suddenly as it had arrived, and she rested one hand against the wall for balance. I was concerned enough to ask whether she could get home safely and whether she wanted me to call a friend or her mother. She shook her head and said she had her car nearby.