He almost broke up with me. And then he took it all back. Because of the puppy. Seriously. Before that part, I neatly packed several suitcases (again). I placed each of my belongings cautiously, careful to leave behind anything he had given me, which really isn't much. I was ready to retreat to my tiny studio apartment on that mythic lake, nestled between historic Mary Tyler Moore mansions.
He's unhappy. Meanwhile, I'm living in some sort of manic bliss, oblivious to his inability to find contentment. Didn't it used to be the other way around? I'm certain I used to be the one fumbling through life playing let's pretend to be glowing and effusive and full of the best kind of life. But it isn't like that anymore.
I cried. I tried to leave. I couldn't. A deep desperation set in. I sunk slowly to place I couldn't reason myself out of. I was unable to imagine life without him or someone like him. But I was without someone like him on reserve. How disgusting. Unlike ever before, I felt out of options. Trapped in this myopic life I've uncomfortably stuffed myself into.
So I pleaded. And he took me back and I took him back. I promised to cook, clean and wear frilly aprons, to be less aloof, to be someone never meant to be.
I was free, almost. I didn't take the chance. I didn't run away. I didn't start the car and keep driving.
The architect is returning, albeit briefly.
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