I slipped, and I looked him up a little, and it was disappointing.

He was disappointing.

I was disappointed. I carried a flicker of hope that he would be a better person in my absence as he failed to in my presence. That he would be responsible, that he would be strong, that he would take time. But instead, the sign points to him obeying his demons as he does. The hint I found is enough, and I won’t dig deeper to learn more.

Turning within, I find: I want someone to come back to me. I want them to be humbled, to be better, to have grown away from me but gotten closer to me in that separation. I’d rather not get to know someone new when I think about it, to do the dance of discovery and revelation and new intimacy. I’m tired. I’m pessimistic about what I’ll find. My milestones are checked off and I’m waiting to die. I want someone to hold my hand and have my back as we see how the world changes.

But it’s not that simple. For me, loving someone is an endorsement, and I don’t feel like my love is deserved. I am repulsed by the grays of such imperfect unions. So feeling wells up in me and turns to bile with nowhere to go, leaking out in irritation and aiming itself at inappropriate targets. The main appeal is me not knowing them well enough to despise them, yet.

This empty solitude isn’t missing another body, although that’s part of it. It’s missing another mind that shares perspectives; another heart expressing sentiments that touches mine. The mutual respect and appreciation for who we are: what we have learned, what we have accomplished, how we have grown.

I slipped, and I looked him up a little, and my stomach dropped. My heart beat faster, and I was sad.

All these endings are radioactive; for me they are trauma. The fantasy of return is a longing to be healed, to be whole. But I feel broken, and it is disappointing.

I was disappointed.

I am disappointing.

I put my hands on his shoulders, looked at him, and said, "If my plane crashes, just know that I will love you forever."

I remember, his eyes filled with tears and he said he loved me back. It wasn't the first time he'd said it.

The first time, it had seemed to slip out like an accident. He was talking about some additional responsibility at work that he wasn't sure he'd be asked to take on. Flirting, I said, "I'm sure you can convince them, just wiggle your butt at the right people." He smiled broadly and murmured "I love you," then quickly pulled me into his lap and buried his nose in my neck, giving me the opportunity to pretend I hadn't heard. I stayed silent then, but I grasped his arms around me tightly. We had been dating for a month.

Months later, we were in a hotel room together on a trip that I had been invited to long after it had been planned; it had been scheduled before we'd even met each other, and we had different flights home. Mine left first. I'm a little scared of flying, I have this magical belief that if I think too hard about the plane falling out of the sky it will. It was comforting to think that if that happened, he'd know. I'd be missed.

And I loved that about him. Not just that, but the way he looked at me sometimes. Like he was lost, but thought I knew the way. I knew the love I felt in that moment was enough to carry me through the rest of the day, well past the duration of the flight. If that was how long my forever was, my love for him would last the duration.

Later, I would doubt if I loved him at all. Can I love someone I don't respect? I think so poorly of him now. But even with that, there's so much I miss. His intensity, his hunger for connection, his longing for meaning, his insightfulness. His movements, when they were deliberate. His way of thinking, when he was not on autopilot.

He was reflective, thoughtful, so often. And yet, as I would come to learn as I knew him longer, not often enough. Some days I miss the good in all that bad. It was so close to being worth the price of admission.

"But only if my plane crashes."