Jake always gets home just before four in the afternoon, unless he has to do some shopping first. It's a desolation that greets him every single time, their house that's no longer a home, emptied of life, emptied of light, emptied of hope, emptied of love. But that's not true, he knows he's full to bursting with love for Jo, but he often gets the feeling that she just doesn't love him back. In a bit, he's going to call his mum, and they'll be on the phone for half an hour or so, and she's going to ask him again to fix things. There's a sing his mum used to sing to him when he was a kid, and he hums it every day. 'It's so funny how we don't talk anymore', words he couldn't understand at that age, and that now he finds absolutely devastating, and not surprisingly, not funny at all. He finds it sad that he and Jo somehow both decided to give up on what they had. Had they grown tired of each other? When did she stop loving him? Jake asks himself these questions every night before he cries himself to sleep on the couch. And how did he end up there, after all? Had there been an inciting incident between them that led him to make the decision of not sleeping in their bed? Not really, there were just a hell of a lot of little things that had started going wrong, and then maybe one night he just didn't feel welcomed or wanted, and he left.
After he's done talking to his mum, Jake checks the house to see what needs to be done before Jo arrives. She's getting home later and later, he's noticed. Sometimes he thinks she's met someone else, and that she's just biding her time until she leaves him for good. There's a masochistic part of him - because entertaining these thoughts always hurt him a lot - that hopes she's found someone else. That's how much he wants her happiness, that if someone else could make her happy, then he too, would feel happy. Miserable, to be sure, but happy. He's barely eating these days, usually fixing himself only a couple of sandwiches, or grilled cheese toasties on occasion. He feels tired, far too tired for anything complicated. He's usually ready to go to sleep around seven or eight, sometimes even earlier than that. Before he goes to sleep, though, he always go to what once was their bedroom, and sits down for a little while on their bed. He misses being here with her - he remembers how it felt to have her in his arms, how sweet she smelled, how her heart beat next to his. Mementos of days gone by, he fears.
There was a time when they'd both sit down on this couch, and they'd read or watch something together. Often, especially in the beginning, they'd have sex here. He'd sit pretty much where he is now sitting, and she'd sit on top of him, swaying up and down. How limitless everything felt then. How impossible the thought of her one day loathing his very touch. This is how their communication goes these days : on the off chance they see each other, they just briefly look at each other in the eye, sometimes nod, sometimes mumble something, and how did it come to this, and why does it stay like this? It hurts him, and maybe it's time to give up the ghost. Maybe it's time to set them both free. It's probably going to kill him, but it's time to face the truth. There won't be no sweeping exits, no Hollywood endings. Just two broken souls that once upon a time loved each other more than life itself.
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