Them Against the World

They met in college. The first time he saw her was in the library, where she was sitting at a table. She had her headphones on, her CD player was on her lap. Her face was buried in a book, her notepad and colorful highlighters ready for note‑taking. He approached her and pretended to need help finding a book so he could talk to her. She thought he was handsome and charming, so she helped him, even though she knew it was only an excuse.

From that moment, they were inseparable.

They started out studying at the library with friends they had in common. In between classes, they met for lunch whenever their schedules lined up, stealing time in small increments. Sometimes, they took the subway to go walk downtown, not going anywhere in particular, just walking around and talking about everything and nothing.

They fell in love quietly at first. And then all at once.

They dated for a few months before moving in together. She was escaping a bad family situation, and he was tired of sharing his room with his brothers. They both needed a space to call their own, and a person to belong to. They were broke and their apartment was small, but it was their own.

He called her “Kitty,” because of the way she stretched in the morning and how she loved to curl up next to him. She was happy and sweet, and he loved the way her mind made her see things differently than other people.

She called him “Sketchy,” because he was an artist and he was always drawing in his sketchbook. She loved that when he had dreams about her, he immortalized them on paper. He was affectionate and fun, and he always knew how to make her feel special.

Over time, the apartment stayed crappy, but it was filled with drawings, half-finished projects, music playing too loud, and hands always finding each other. And the cat he ABSOLUTELY did not want was always in his arms, purring and cuddling.

Everyone said they were perfect together.

They didn’t need to finish each other’s sentences. Just one complicit look and they were already there.

He often said, “Forever doesn’t feel long enough with you.”

And she believed him because she knew it was true. She knew it was true because she felt the same way too.

When it happened, she cried on the floor of their tiny apartment. Not from fear, but joy.

It was an accident. But she wanted to keep the baby.

Her first thought was that this baby came from her and him, this baby came from love. It could only be a blessing. It was a surprise that could turn into something beautiful.

When she told him, he looked at his feet for a long time. He wasn’t smiling. Why wasn’t he smiling?

“I don’t think I can do this,” he said, eyes wet. “We’re not ready… I’m not ready.”

“But what if I am ready?” she asked.

He looked away. “You can’t do this. If you keep the baby, I will leave.”

She could not find words to answer.

She wasn’t angry. How could she be angry at him?

She didn’t think of him as someone who could abandon her. She thought that he just couldn’t see what she could see so clearly, yet.

That it was them against the world.

That anything they faced together would be good, simply because it would be theirs.

She didn’t want to trap him or force him into anything. She never considered keeping the baby without him, because the idea of them as separate entities felt so wrong. It felt impossible, like trying to picture the earth without gravity.

She thought that he would come around. That time would soften his fear. That love would make things clearer. She waited for him to recognize what she already knew was true.

But he never did.

For days, they talked. They talked and cried, and talked some more.

They talked until they ran out of words, and out of time.

They walked home from the clinic in silence that day.

Her body and her soul were aching in more ways than one.

She could still hear the nurses’ reassuring words toward her. She could still hear them talking amongst themselves, agreeing about how “today is such a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”, as they stood over her and prepared her. And she thought to herself that today was not a beautiful day. Today was the worst day.

Every chance he got on the walk back home, he wrapped his arms around her, whispering, “I’m so sorry” again and again, like a prayer. As if repeating it could rewind time somehow.

She heard the words, but she didn’t recognize the voice.

The months passed and they continued to share space, like best friends trying to be lovers again. They went out with friends, went to the movies, cooked delicious meals together. He avoided the topic and she tried to pretend like it wasn’t consuming her thoughts in the morning when she woke up, during the day when she saw babies in carriages, and at night as she lay awake, thinking about what could have been.

He grew quieter, more distant, as if weighed down by a force he couldn’t name. He wasn’t happy with where he was, or who he felt he was becoming. His touch grew infrequent and distracted, and she could see him wander off, even when he was sitting right beside her.

She knew he loved her. That was never the question. She tried to make things easier for him, tried to be less needy, more accommodating. She told herself love meant patience. It meant standing still while someone else figured out who they were.

They were alive, but something had cracked. Not a break you feel right away, but one you only notice later, when you reach for something that’s no longer there.

Trust doesn’t shatter like glass when it’s broken. It is quiet, like the soft click of a door that closes behind you.

So when he said, “I’ll love you forever” again, she thought, forever felt too long with him now.