Almost

The last time they saw eachother was when they walked away from each other at the same time.

They hadn't planned on it; no, they would never plan such a dreadful thing.

They agreed on it.

It had come to a point where both of them understood that staying meant more hurt, more fights, more pain. Staying longer required needing more courage, more hope, but they had both lost it all deep down in the depths of their joined souls.

Maxine made her way to the shore of the beach, flip-flops in her hands, as the cold sand bit into her feet. She used the cold, biting sensation as a distraction to the greater pain; as if a distraction would anchor her to the moment. The ocean spoke the same language as her bruising heart. It was restless, breathing in and out as if its own heart was ripping apart.

William walked in the opposite direction from her, turning right, where his car was parked, and where he would drive to the airport. He hated airports and loved them at the same time. Usually, he felt that airports were the most cheerful place, where families, friends, or partners reunited. Today, however, he saw the airport as a place where departure boards blink at you brightly and separate people. Today, the airport was a daunting place where people practised leaving others behind, as if it were a language they had mastered.

For the five years their relationship had lasted, and the years previous to it when they were best friends, Maxine and William had been very good at walking in step with each other.

They matched pace.

They matched their plans.

They matched in their tough silences.

William knew Maxine's favourite coffee order; he even knew that she preferred chai lattes over coffee or tea. Maxine knew his favourite snacks and guilty pleasures just as well. But they also knew each other's tempers, each other's scars that marked a part of them, and the traumas that came along. With time, they learned what memories hurt, and which scary truths to avoid altogether. What they hadn’t realised at the time was that they mistook the familiarity of it all with permanence, their comfort for commitment.

Maxine and William were “perfect together”. That’s what all their friends and family would say. But they had mistaken almost for enough.

Almost happy, almost satisfied.

It wasn’t the argument that rocked the boat; that ended it all. The argument was forgivable, forgettable to them. Maxine muttered, “It doesn’t matter, it's small, it’s ordinary”, to end the argument. They were the kind of couple that grew tired of naming the real problem, of facing it yet again.

But it wasn’t the argument that ended it.

It was the silence and pause after.

The silence didn’t rush to be filled. It was loud, but it did not beg them for repair. It simply sat there; it existed in their space - heavy in its presence, patient, and honest. Silence carried the promises that said they’d be together forever, all the conversations they decided to postpone, to touch on later, “when everything gets better”, as William liked to say.

William almost turned back.

“Almost, almost… almost”. The word constantly boomed in his mind. He realised that the word would follow him for the rest of his time on earth.

Max - he wanted to call out her name, her nickname that only the supposed love of her life called her by. He imagined how they would laugh about this later, calling it a small and ordinary problem; a misunderstanding. William pictured a version of them that would have survived the silence, a version where one of them had been braver.

“Almost… almost…” chanted his mind at him. That version of them lived in almost.

Maxine didn’t look back either.

She thought of all the times she had waited - at the table, at their big apartment window, at the conversations where William would almost say what she needed to hear. She thought about how her love for him began to feel like talking to a wall, or like standing in a big, beautiful room with the light turned off. She loved him, knowing he was there, but never saw him. She got tired of waiting.

For her, walking to the shore felt like an odd act of faith towards herself. Yes, she didn’t know what she believed in anymore, or if she would ever feel love again, but it felt freeing.

The wind helped William close his car door.

The crashing waves pulled at Maxine's ankles.

For a small moment, the world held both of them in their separate silences.

About 30 minutes later, William, already in the air, watched as the coastline blurred into a vast blue.

Maxine headed back, watching her footprints disappear behind her, into the same blue.

They would both tell their story differently, later.

They would both soften the blows and edges when they told it. They would take away the moments that made them look bad or weak, and afraid. They would tell the story, rewriting themselves as kinder, braver, with more certainty. Their memories would become a collaboration between who they were and who they wished they had been at that moment, or who they should’ve been sooner.

William would say, “It was mutual”.

Maxine would say, “It was needed”.

In the coming years, they both fell in love again. With other souls. With other versions. But they still think of what could have been.

He would wonder what would have happened if he had turned around that day.

She would wonder what would have happened if she had waited a little longer.

Neither of them would come to know.

The not knowing would be its own bittersweet ending.

Sometimes love doesn’t end in a disastrous fight, or betrayal, or screaming.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

With two interconnected souls, choosing opposite directions.

Two souls thinking they are being kind.

With Maxine and William walking away from the almost that nearly happened.

And realising,

Almost is, and was never enough.