The Last Goodbye

The coffee maker gurgled its familiar song at 6:47 AM, seven minutes later than it used to. I’d reset it three weeks ago, after Derek mentioned he’d been waking up earlier for his new commute. I’d done it without thinking, the way you adjust to someone’s rhythm after five years of being together.

Now I watched him pour two cups with the ritual, adding the exact amount of cream to mine. More than he thought I needed, less than I actually wanted, the compromise we’d landed on somewhere in year two. He slid the mug across our kitchen island, and our fingers didn’t touch.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Welcome.” Not “you’re welcome.” Just “welcome,” the way he’d said it every morning for longer than I could remember.

We’d had the conversation last night. The real one, not the dozens of careful half-conversations that had been circling each other for months like cautious animals. We’d sat on opposite ends of the couch and finally said all the things we’d been too afraid to say.

I love you, but I’m not in love with you anymore.

I think we’ve been holding on to who we used to be instead of who we are now.

This isn’t anyone’s fault.

That last one was the worst kind of true. There was no betrayal to point to, no moment where everything shattered. Just a slow fade, like a photograph left too long in sunlight.

“I can take the first load to my sister’s after work,” Derek said, wrapping both hands around his mug. He’d always done that, even in summer. “The books and clothes. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah. That’s fine.” My voice sounded normal. I’d gotten good at that.

He nodded, staring into his coffee like it held answers. The morning light cut across his face, highlighting the small scar on his chin from the biking accident in year three of our relation. I’d held his hand in the ER while they stitched it. He’d joked that at least now he’d have a distinguishing feature for his driver’s license photo.

“I keep thinking I should feel angrier,” I said. The words surprised me.

Derek looked up. “Yeah?”

“Like there should be something to fight about. Some big dramatic thing.” I turned my mug in slow circles on the granite. “But there’s just… this.”

“This,” he repeated softly.

This. Two people who used to finish each other’s sentences now struggling to start them. Two people who used to talk for hours about nothing now rationing words like they might run out. Two people who used to built a life together.

“Do you remember that weekend in Asheville?” Derek asked suddenly. “When we got lost trying to find that brewery?”

I smiled despite myself. “And we ended up at that weird taxidermy museum instead.”

“Yeah I didn’t even know they had those. You made me take a picture with the bear.”

“You loved that bear.”

“I really did.” His laugh was quiet, almost surprised, like he’d forgotten he could. “We were so good at being spontaneous back then.”

“We were good at a lot of things back then.”

The past tense sat heavy between us. Were. Used to be. Back then.

“I don’t think I know how to be spontaneous anymore,” I admitted. “I don’t think I’ve known for a while.”

Derek set down his mug. “When did we stop being curious about each other?”

The question hit like a punch to the gut. Because that was it, wasn’t it? Somewhere along the way, we’d figured each other out, filled in all the blanks, and then stopped looking for new questions to ask. We’d become comfortable. Then we’d become complacent. Then we’d become strangers who knew everything and nothing about each other.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think it was gradual. Like going blind. You don’t notice until you’re already in the dark.”

He reached across the island, and for a moment I thought he might take my hand. Instead, he picked up the salt shaker, turned it over, set it back down. A pointless gesture. Something to do with the space between us.

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. “That’s the fucked up part. I’m going to miss you even though we’re sitting right here.”

My throat tightened. “I already miss you. I’ve been missing you for months.”

“Me too.”

We sat in that confession, in the awful relief of finally naming it. I’d been missing him while he brushed his teeth next to me. While he slept eighteen inches away. While he asked about my day and I gave him the edited version, the one that wouldn’t require too much explanation or energy.

“I wanted to be enough,” I said quietly. “I wanted us to be enough.”

“We were enough. We just… ran out of road, I think.” Derek’s voice cracked on the last word. “Sometimes things end not because they’re done.”

“I don’t know how to do this.” The admission escaped before I could stop it. “I don’t know how to unmake a life.”

“One day at a time, I guess.”

One day at a time. One divided bank account. One apartment search. One explanation to friends who would inevitably ask what happened, who would try to find the moment of rupture that didn’t exist.

I looked around our kitchen. Our kitchen, though soon it would just be mine or just be his or just be someone else’s entirely. The herbs on the windowsill that I always forgot to water. The collection of takeout menus held by magnets from places we’d traveled. The crack in the backsplash tile from when Derek had gotten enthusiastic with a hammer during our DIY phase.

“Do you think we gave up?” I asked. “Do you think we could have tried harder?”

Derek was quiet for a long moment. “I think we tried exactly as hard as we could. I think we both kept trying until we were exhausted from trying. That’s not giving up. That’s… acknowledging that some things are incompatible.”

“When did we become incompatible?”

“I don’t think we became it. I think we always were, a little bit. We just had enough momentum at first that it didn’t matter.”

Momentum. That was the word for it. The energy of new love that carries you over obstacles and rough patches. But momentum requires maintenance, requires intention, requires both people pushing in the same direction. Somewhere, we’d stopped pushing. We’d started coasting. And now we’d finally come to rest.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “Of being alone again. Of starting over. Of…” I trailed off.

“Of what?”

“Of forgetting what it feels like to be known by someone.”

Derek’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “You’ll find that again. You’ll find someone who’s curious about you, who wants to know all the versions of you.”

“So will you,” I said, and meant it, even though the thought of him with someone else felt like swallowing glass.

He stood up, carried his mug to the sink, rinsed it with the same three motions he always used. Muscle memory. The body remembering what the heart was trying to forget.

“I should get ready for work,” he said.

“Yeah. Me too.”

But neither of us moved. Because once we did, once we stepped out of this kitchen and this moment, we’d be stepping into the next phase. The actual leaving. The reality of separation.

“Derek?”

He turned.

“Thank you. For the coffee. For all the mornings. For… everything, really.”

His smile was sad and soft and so familiar it hurt. “Welcome,” he said.

One last time.

I watched him walk down the hallway toward our bedroom. Toward what used to be our bedroom and listened to the sound of his footsteps. Soon I wouldn’t hear that sound anymore. Soon there would be different sounds, or different silences, or different footsteps entirely.

I picked up my mug and took a sip. The coffee was lukewarm now, not quite enough cream, the way it had always been. The way it would never be again.

Outside the window, the world was waking up. People were starting their days, falling in love, falling out of love, holding on, letting go. The human connection grinding forward in its beautiful, terrible way.

And here I was, sitting in my kitchen that wouldn’t be my kitchen much longer, drinking coffee that tasted like goodbye, mourning a relationship that had died so quietly we’d almost missed the funeral.

I thought about that weekend in Asheville. How we’d laughed at the absurdity of the taxidermy bear, how Derek had kissed me in the parking lot afterward, how everything had felt possible and easy and right. How we’d been so sure.

But sure isn’t the same as permanent. Love isn’t the same as compatibility. And sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone you love is admit that loving them isn’t enough to make it work.

I finished my coffee, rinsed my mug, set it in the dishwasher. Tomorrow I’d make my own coffee. I’d reset the timer to whenever I wanted. I’d add however much cream I actually liked. I’d start learning how to be just me again, instead of half of us.

The thought was terrifying.

The thought was also, maybe, a little bit like relief.