I Miss You, I Love You

The morning is foggy. I can barely see the road ahead of my car. I drive toward the babysitter’s house and turn a punk rock song loud and my kids giggle and we sing together. I’ve been doing better lately. We arrive and we hug and kiss and say goodbye and I leave for work and I feel okay. Then, going north on 4th Street, my heart suddenly remembers that it’s broken. The dull ache turns into a piercing pain and tears run down my cheeks and I sniff desperately. The box of tissues I keep for emergencies like this is out of reach. I keep driving through the fog, driving and crying and missing you. It’s been three weeks now, three weeks since it ended. I miss you, I love you, I miss you. I still think about the moment you said you weren’t in love with me anymore, the way your hands gestured broadly as you said it, how your voice was strong and almost resentful because you didn’t want to face it, didn’t want to admit it. How can such a beautiful love just disappear? Where did it go? If I keep driving up 4th, would I find it? What if I go south on Summit and turn right on Broad and right on Jefferson and left on Elm and right on Chester and park in front of your apartment and go up the stairs through the fog and open your door and look into your eyes? Would I find it? But I know I won’t. Not anymore. I turn into the lot by the office and park my car and reach for the tissues. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes and look in the rearview mirror and dab away a little smeared mascara. I take a deep breath and open the door. I miss you, I love you, I miss you. The fog is so thick.

— SKYLAR CAMP

Skylar Camp (she/her) lives in Columbus, Ohio, with her two young kids, her partner, and their fuzzy kitty. Her writing focuses on deconverting from Evangelical Christianity, divorce, polyamory, parenting, and more. Her work appears in Bi Women Quarterly, The Broadkill Review, and JAKE. Find her at skylarcamp.com.