...

He's been pulling away from you for a few days now, spending more time outside of your room, busying himself with anything he can find as long as it doesn't involve you. You know why, you're going home soon and he's trying to limit the impact, preparing himself for the inevitable, getting used to being without you, hoping it'll make it easier when things change, when you go back home, but it's not a perfect solution. He still finds his way back, sometimes sneaking back into your room at dawn, and you know he thinks it'd be smarter to sleep in his own bed and you know he's tried, but somehow he always ends up in yours. (Not that you're complaining.)

 

You know he's waiting for you to say something, but you can't, you wouldn't know where to start and you're afraid of what could come out if you don't plan it first. (You're afraid because you know exactly what you might say.) Whenever you notice him getting like that, you just kiss him instead, at least when you're alone. When he gets like that in public you turn it into a joke and he looks hurt and you resort your other strategy the first second you're alone. It works, it's not hard to distract him, not for you. (Or maybe he's just willing to pretend it's working.)

 

It's been almost a month since you started this set of shows, it's been two weeks since you followed him out of the hotel, into a restaurant, back to the hotel. It's been three days since he started sliding away from you when you sit down backstage, looking away from you when he laughs or smiles. Three days since he stopped touching you for no reason, texting you when you're apart, kissing you when he wakes up in your arms, but it feels like three years. You sort of understand why he's doing it, and you definitely respect his right to, but all you can think is that the two of you are like a rubber band and pulling away from you just means getting closer to being snapped back together. (Unless the band breaks and you lose him instead.)

 

He's still waiting for you to say something and honestly, you're waiting for him to say something too. Maybe you can't give him exactly what he wants, but you don't know where he wants to go from here and you don't want to bring it up because this thing, whatever it is, is fragile and it matters and you don't want to break the silence. 

 

He gets back to your room at 2am and he probably thinks you're sleeping because he's trying to be quiet as he gets ready for bed, you wait for him to get in bed, your bed, but he doesn't, getting into the bed on the opposite side of the room for the first time in weeks. (You suddenly wonder if the housekeeper thinks it's weird that one bed is always made up.)

 

Maybe he did it on purpose because you can't take it, you explode, the tension of the past few days finally overwhelming you. "Do you want to break up?" You're speaking too loudly and he hadn't even noticed you were still awake and he jolts and you feel bad, but not bad enough. He rolls over to look at you, you cross your arms across your chest. "There's nothing to break," he replies calmly. "Isn't that how you want it to be?"

 

"No," you say reflexively. "You don't?" he asks, faltering a little. "Not if you just get to end it whenever you feel like it." He sits up, rubs his hand across his face and you realize how tired he looks, how drained, how limp and lifeless. It's been a long month and you thought you were helping but he's dealing with all of this alone because he thinks it's what you want. It should be what you want. Simple, no complicated plans, no talking, but that's not enough for you. Not anymore. (Not with him.) "We're going home soon," he continues. "So?"

 

"So, this can't keep happening once we go home, it won't work." The childish part of you wants to disagree, to tell him it can work, to tell him you want this no matter what, but you're smarter than that, or you at least know that you're stupid if you think this is sustainable. It's been two weeks, you couldn't even last two weeks. "We're not home yet," you remind him, even though you know what he'll say. "The longer we wait, the harder it'll be. For me, at least."

 

"It's not," you swallow hard, past a suspicious lump growing in your throat, "it's not easy for me either." He nods. "I'm just trying to make it easier." You know, but you don't have to like it, and it's Christmas and waking up with him on Christmas morning sounds like the greatest thing ever and you know it's not fair, but you want it anyway. "One more night," you whisper, worried he'll turn you down. "You'll say that tomorrow too."

 

"No, I won't. Just tonight," you promise. "Just tonight?" he confirms. You get out of bed, turn out the light, climb over him to get into his bed, reach for him under the blankets, pull him close to you, pray he doesn't pull away. "Just tonight," you repeat quietly, head buried in his chest, eyes closed. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, that you're just tired, that his mattress is just more comfortable than yours, that this isn't anything more than a reaction to being lonely and homesick and exhausted. (But this time you know it's a lie.)

 

Morning rears its ugly head long before you're ready and it's the holidays but you have to work and you have to stop, you have to stop this just like you promised you would, no matter how hard it is. But it's Christmas morning and your room is a little chilly and he's warm and awake and you know he's staring at you, fingers tumbling through your hair, trying to smile but failing. You should have let him keep pushing you away, you should stop making this harder on him, you should tell him what this is, lay it all out so he can stop wondering, but you don't know how. You can't even explain it to yourself, how could he possibly understand? (Maybe you should ask him to explain it.)

He notices you're awake after a minute and his hand stills, he clears his throat, sits up and throws his feet over the edge of the bed. You're cold and you're miserable and you don't know what to do, but you don't want it to end like this, so you reach out to stop him from leaving, grab his wrist. "You promised," he whispers. He's right, you did, you have to keep your promises for once. You let go of him, he leaves, it feels final and dark and cold and wrong and it's all your fault and you deserve to suffer. 

 

It feels weird on stage and you miss him and you keep looking at him, hoping his eyes still light up when he smiles. He seems more okay than you and you know it could be fake but you're still jealous. Why isn't this affecting him like it's affecting you, why are you the only one that's suffering, doesn't he care, doesn't he miss you, does he care if your smiles are fake?

 

When you get back to your room that night, he's there and he won't look at you and you expected it but it still stings, makes it real, final. Only two more days, you think, two more days until we'll be home. That shouldn't make you feel worse, but it does. Who needs home anyway? At home you're alone. He's there, but you're alone. Here is better. You should stay here, live in some bubble of unreality, forget about home. You've never dreaded being home this much before. (Not in a long time, at least.)

 

He throws himself into work, which isn't really different from what he's been doing, but now he's doing it to avoid you and it's really getting to you. You spend most of your time out of your room because he's always in it, but you run out of things to do, you run out of energy, you have to get some sleep, so you have to return. He's apparently decided he doesn't need to sleep at all because you can tell he's still working from the electronic glow that fills the room past 2, past 3, past 4am. 

 

He's doing it on purpose, you know, so you can wake up and shower and escape while he's still unconscious. At the venue, you wordlessly take turns being absent from the dressing room. On stage, he moves away when you start drifting closer, you do the same when he drifts near to you. He takes the tour bus back, you ride in a car with the staff. If anyone gets suspicious, they keep it to themselves, and you're glad about that at least. 

 

You have an early flight and your alarm wakes both of you up at the same time. He notices you're not getting up, your eyes open but vacant. "Do you want to shower first?" he asks, and his voice is raspy and low and it's doing all kinds of lovely, horrible, dangerous things to you, so you answer with a simple 'no' and roll away from him, close your eyes and listen to the bathroom door close. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, the door opens and he finishes packing his things while you lock yourself in the bathroom, shower and shave and calculate exactly how much time until you're supposed to be in the lobby to meet the airport shuttle. You still feel like avoiding him is the best course of action, but he doesn't really seem to agree and it's getting on your nerves. When you come out from the bathroom, your things are already stowed away and your suitcases are lined up at the doors and he's doing it because it's normal but it's pissing you off and you don't know why and you snap. You grab his suitcase and throw it on the bed, it, start emptying his things. "What are you doing?" he squeaks, wrinkling his face in confusion. You stop, spin around to look at him. "See? You don't want me messing around with your things, so keep your grubby hands off mine."

 

You regret saying it the moment you see his face change at your thoughtless words, but maybe this is the way to do it, to protect him by making him hate you. "I was just trying to help, it's already kind of late." You grab your bags and leave him to clean up your mess. (He's used to it, he must be by now.) 

 

He walks down to the lobby five minutes later, sits across the room from you and he looks sick and you know he's feeling that way because of you, but maybe if you can erase his feelings for you, then you can actually be normal. You have to try, this is your fault for giving in, it's your responsibility to fix it. You're gonna fix it by destroying yourself in his eyes.

 

(The plane readies for takeoff and you close your eyes and lean back in your seat and you see his face and you know it's not going to be that easy.)