knowing

In the shadows and dimness, he finally could see clearly, and he felt a tiny shudder ripple through his breathing. She was gone. She was next to him, that close to him, but she was gone. It was the kind of prescient moment that terrified him, because he knew they were always right, those singular moments, always truthful, in all ways irreconcilable. They’d talked about trying to salvage what they’d had and he’d tried to ignore the glint of knowing he’d seen in her eyes when she said that she’d make the effort. But, now, it was clear to him. At this very moment. In the darkness. In the silence. In the stillness. He could still hear her breathe. He could feel her body sigh and relax. But he couldn’t move closer, nor reach out to hold her or even touch her. She was gone. From him. It took all the strength he had to force himself to stay in bed, to let things seem as though they were the same, to pretend, to say nothing, for the moment. So, he did. And she slept.