I stood in the doorway, staring at him, speechless. 

My hair was tied back into a messy bun, my t-shirt, wrinkled and stained. My sweatpants were dragging on the floor, too long for my frame and almost covering my fuzzy socks that I got for Christmas a year ago. I was very aware of my breath. It was Saturday and I had no plans, so all I had effectively brushed my teeth with were two cups of coffee.

I became very aware of my body's response to nervous energy and mumbled, "I have to pee," before turning and briskly walking to the bathroom. I closed the door, leaned against it, and took a deep shuddering breath. I could not believe that after all of these years, he was standing at my doorstep asking to be let into my home. I used the toilet and stared into the mirror while washing my hands. My hair was greasy and my face was pale. I dried my hands and pinched my cheeks, attempting to bring life into them. The result was not what I had hoped. Instead of appearing fresh-faced, I had succeeded in making my skin blotchy and swollen. I shook my head, feeling stupid for caring this much and feeling careless for not having settled my emotions more thoroughly before this moment. I took one last deep breath and opened the door to see if he was still waiting to be let in or if he had left as a result of my nervous bladder.

To my surprise, he had let himself into the house and was sitting on the edge of my couch. I was relieved that he sat upright and his left leg was bouncing. He didn't deserve to be relaxed in my home. We stared at each other for a long moment and I wondered what he was thinking. His eyes darted around my face, looking for clues. I returned a steely expression, keeping my true emotions off of my face.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

"Why are you here?" I countered. He looked down, finally breaking eye contact and stared at his hands. I followed his gaze and my attention lingered on the gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

"I wanted to see you."

"You ended things," I reminded him.

He looked up and around the room. Finally, he looked back at me and gestured to a chair, "Could you please sit down?"

"No."

An uncomfortable silence permeated the living room like a dense fog. I refused to break it and waited for him to say something. Seconds passed like hours on a hot, humid summer day, slow and uncomfortable. I crossed my arms while I waited. 

Eventually, he opened his mouth, but it quickly closed. He opened it and closed it again, resembling a fish on land, gasping for breath. Finally, he stuttered, "I don't know what to say."

"You must have come here with something in mind. So, why don't you start there?" I suggested.

He bit the inside of his lip and nodded his head up and down. "Okay. Uhm. I'm sorry?"

"Are you telling me or asking me?"

"I'm telling you. Geez. I'm not very good at this," he laughed nervously. He looked at me intently, "You look beautiful, you know."

"Is that what you came to tell me? That I look beautiful?"

"Well, not exactly, I just thought—"

"What? What did you think?"

"I think you do, so I wanted to say it."

I could feel my eyes narrow at him and his shoulders shrunk back a bit, exposing his insecurity. I felt another surge of confidence because of this—in the course of our relationship, I was seldom the one who held power. In fact, it was never a shared responsibility and I spent most of the time we spent together working up the nerve to tell him how I truly felt, hoping that he would return the same sentiment. Instead, the reality of our circumstance centered around an elaborate cat-and-mouse charade designed to keep me engaged, but never actually close enough to catch my prize.

"After all of this time, I don't believe that's why you showed up."

"You're right," he smiled. "As usual."

Physically controlling the reflex to roll my eyes at his poor attempt to flirt, I tried to get him back on track, "Why are you here?"

"I just want to talk with you again."

"About anything in particular?"

"I want you back in my life."

"You shut me out of it."

"You're the one who said you didn't want to talk to me, remember?"

My eyes opened wide and my mouth fell. "You're kidding, right?" His eyes knit together in frustration and I realized that is what he believed. "I didn't tell you that I didn't want to talk to you. I told you I didn't want to talk to you like that anymore. You got married. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to be there for me." He inched forward on the couch, balancing his weight forward.

"I was. I was there for you every moment. Every time you'd take a break from me, I would be waiting for weeks for you to reach out, not sure if I should because it might make it look like I was being desperate. I tried so hard to be what you wanted without knowing what you wanted. Then, I tell you I want to try to talk without flirting or saying things we shouldn't because you chose someone else and you shut me out. For years, I have had failed relationships because of you. You're everything I wanted and everything I couldn't have."

"You can have me now," he said. "You can have me now."

"No. No I cannot."

"Why?"

"You're married."

"You always find a way to bring that up," he said running his hands through his hair.

"It's the only thing that matters."

"And this—me putting myself out there for you—this doesn't matter?"

"Did it matter when I put myself out there for you?" Silence filled the air. The fog had dissipated and the crux of the matter stepped forward.

He stared back at me hard and grit his teeth. "Yes, it mattered."

"Not enough."

I looked away and stared at the corner of the room but saw him stand up off the couch in my periphery. He came toward me and put his arms up as if to give me a hug. I always loved the way I fit within his larger frame and wanted nothing more but to feel his arms wrapped around me again. I put my hand up to his chest and held him back. His arms dropped and I looked up into his face.

"I think you should go. We both know you'll go back to her anyway. You always did," I smiled sadly. "You like to be comfortable."

He stepped back and paused. Briefly his hand lifted toward my face but stopped before he touched me. He sighed and walked to the door.

"I'm sorry this didn't work," he said.

"Me too."

He reached for the doorknob and turned it. We shared one last look and I took the time to commit his face to memory. I knew this would be the last time I would see him and I closed my eyes, resigned to that fact. When I opened them, he was gone and I found that I could breathe again.