Moving out and moving on

There’s a house I used to inhabit with a man I’ve loved for a while now but we never signed a lease on it. At times, I felt as though we could make a home out of it but the lack of a contract made it impossible to properly call it “home.” Nevertheless, I was content with sharing a bed with him regardless of whether there was a binding document—a mere piece of paper, I thought.

I decorated our house, bought little knick-knacks I thought he’d appreciate, even did repairs myself when needed. I kept it clean, especially our bedroom where I felt I could shed the mask I wore outside and still be accepted as my bare self. He undressed me in many ways that I felt I need not hide anything.

Sometimes, I peek outside the window and see our neighbors and envy them. I see them freely invite their friends for dinner and show them their home whereas he never lets anyone see our house; he prefers the knowledge of our cohabitation be esoteric. I couldn’t tell what he was ashamed of. On a few occasions, I felt I was a mere bedwarmer rather than a cohabitant. But I couldn’t complain—we didn’t have a contract after all.

The cobwebs grew and only he could reach them but he didn’t, so I also let the dust collect and swept them under the rug. The untidiness didn’t bother him, he was out of the house most days anyway as I stayed there polishing the silverware for his return. I grew tired of trying to keep the house together. As much as I loved his warmth in the bedroom, maintaining the house started to feel like too much of a chore. With the lack of a binding document, I was at the mercy of his whim. At any moment, I could be kicked to the curb. The longer I stayed there, the more evident it was that I was living on borrowed time. The rent was also becoming too expensive for me to afford so I made the difficult decision to pack up and leave. Only I didn’t expect I would have so much baggage.

Now I find myself homeless, with a box full of things from the house we shared. This box is so immense and heavy that it makes my knuckles turn white and my ears ring from the weight straining on my body. Inside is a collection of our memories, relics of our cohabitation, a boulder of love, and an anvil of grief which I could feel the most crushing my bones. It’s too heavy for me and I want to put the box down but I don’t know how and where.

I get some respite from friends who help me carry the load but at the end of the day, that box is mine to carry. I find myself envying those who have faith; those who can believe some divine providence takes the burden off of them or gives them strength to lift. Alas, the grief in my box is too much for me and only this man can help take the load off, but he is nowhere to be found. He had already abandoned the house and burnt it. Now I find myself praying for the first time—not even for strength, but for him to consider rebuilding a home with me.

What do I do with these things now that there is nothing to return to? Where do I place this love now that he’s gone? How do I purge this grief? Can’t he see how much I’m struggling? Why does my box feel so heavy and yet he doesn’t even seem to carry one? How is it so easy for him to burn our house down? Could I have endured it much longer and perhaps then, he would have been willing to invest in a home together? Does the sight of the detritus break his heart even just by a fraction of how greatly it broke mine? Has he always been in the habit of sharing a bedroom and then dousing the place with gasoline when it’s no longer convenient for him? Has he always been an arsonist or did a past flame burn him, too, and now he wants to be the one to start the fire before it burns him? Could I have remodeled the place a little bit more to his liking, then maybe he wouldn’t have abandoned it? Was the house of any value to him? At the very least, did he save some things from the house before the fire consumed it? I would have worked multiple jobs if he asked to take out a mortgage together. But I also couldn’t break my bank alone anymore and I can no longer be in that house as a servant rather than an equal. Still, if he asked to rebuild it all from the ashes, I would do it with bare hands but only on the condition: that we do it together and call it a home. But he hasn’t. These questions are nothing but broadcasts into the ether and I have to learn to be comfortable with not knowing. My only comfort is knowing I’ll get used to the weight as I go.

Perhaps in the future, I can finally find the strength to put the box down, go back to the detritus, and remember the fond memories. Perhaps when the dust clears, I can finally be at peace with losing that house we shared and maybe then, I can call him up for a cup of coffee to catch up on what he has been building for himself lately. For now, I grieve for what could have been a good property.

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Alexis Caburian, 26, is an aviatrix who balances concise aviation communication in her professional life with cathartic and heartfelt expressions in her personal life. She finds freedom in flying as much as she does in expressing herself.