“I love you—”

“I love you too.”

“... But so what?”

Their flat reeked despondence. A culmination from a decade of pent up resentment towards one another. “I can’t waste myself hating someone I don’t love,” he once said — it wasn’t of her, back then, rather, an acquaintance of theirs. And yet, here and now, he hated her, but that meant loving her as well. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, is an idealised version of them that he adored. Perhaps, that, was what he was loving.

A decade ago, they would have been sitting on the balcony. Huddled together as the gentle autumn wind breezed upon them. Back then, there was room for it. Back when what they could afford was the tiny flat, and their flat only. Even the balcony was spacious enough for them to lay there once in a while. Now, it was filled with relics of their resentment. The bean bag sofa, the “world’s greatest husband” mug, the gift box with earrings inside that she hadn’t opened for three months. 

Years ago, she’d ask herself: what went wrong? Did she say something offensive? Was it her cooking? She distinctly remembered how he was back then: soft, warm, safe. He used to help her with dinner; she wasn’t the best chef, “but that’s okay,” he said, munching on a half burnt lasagna on one of their homemade dinner dates, “We could make it better next time.” And they did. For the next few months, every Thursday was lasagna Thursday. He’d looked up recipes, and she’d bought the right ingredients and tools, and tried to get the mix of meat and sauce right. And by the end of month three, they made something that could very well be presented in restaurants. They were proud.

Years ago, he’d hold it in, and hugged her instead. “Being angry won’t solve anything,” he used to say, “Let’s just try to fix it.” He distinctly remembered how she was back then: sweet, light, breezy. She used to tease him; he wasn’t very much into showing affection, nor receiving it. He’d woke up at night, questions buzzing in his head. Was he good enough? Did he do the right thing? It wasn’t his first time having someone. “I don’t think I’d ever fell for someone this hard.” He was head over heels over her. Was. She’d realised he was awake when she couldn’t find someone she could hug next to him. He’d notice her waking up — was it by her breathing, or the bed sheets making a faint sound, or something else, she didn’t know how. And he’d go back to bed.

It was an idyllic sight, back then. And they had plans, too. “Let’s go to the beach,” “The theatre troupe’s back in town,” “Have you ever gone to the countryside?” They used to look forward to these trips. It was a nice break from work, and life. From annoying employers, to difficult clients, to the long commute they had to take — back when they didn’t have separate cars, at least. Then, it was “too rainy for the beach,” “I have a meeting with the client that date,” “I don’t like the countryside.” And then work was their break from each other.

Often, he’d come home late. It wasn’t anything bad, he’d spent his off hours at the office, giving finishing touches to whatever project he had on. Or, more often than not, he’d just sleep, or play video games. He didn’t want to offend her by saying he needed alone time. He knew she was second guessing herself, and to say “I need a break from you” would have abolished whatever self-dependency she had left. So he’d say the clients were difficult, or that he was having overtime work. “Small white lies for the greater good,” he’d say to himself, “For the greater good.”

Often, she’d be furious at him. First it was “Is he okay? Did he get himself into an accident?”, then it was “Did the clients give him a hard time again? Don’t they know he needed breaks?”, then it was “Was he meeting someone else?” It was a downward spiral, and every time she asked, he’d say he’s okay. That he just needed to work a bit more. Perhaps having more money could fix this. It couldn’t. The dresses she had were well over luxurious, if not pretty as well, but she had no time to use them anyway. Not when he was unavailable for date nights for three weeks in a row. She asked him once, “Are you bored with me?” He didn’t say anything, only a hug, and a light kiss. “It’s going to be okay,” she’d say to herself, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

They used to compensate. After all, they love each other, right? They would reassure themselves of this: that what they have was love. That you couldn’t possibly resent the light of your life. Now, in their dimly lit apartment, their eyes spoke more than what came off of their mouth. Somewhen along the line, that reassuring became self-doubt. If this is love, then why is it so difficult? No, not it. Why are they difficult? He could’ve said he was tired, and she could’ve said she was worried. But they were too disillusioned by this self-assuring notion of romance; that nothing should be wrong, and the more painful sentence they were too afraid to even think of: that you can be upset towards each other.

They used to think that this was what love was. Devotion. A conviction they carried was that they’d receive what they give to others. That’s what everyone said, right? Be good to others, and good will come to you. “So where is it?” they asked, “Where was the good they deserve?”, unaware that they were piling resentment, and resentment came to them. It was karmic poetry, in a sense. That, in trying to do good, they ended up with the worst version of themselves. One that was leaving the dank and suffocating room they shared for ten years next Saturday.

“So this is it?”

A nod.

He tried to pack his things and go, but there wasn’t anything left worth taking. He had moved his essentials to his work place, and he ended up only taking a handful of clothes. The flat was sold by her towards a newlywed couple for a cheap price. It was suffocating, and relinquishing the memory she had over it as fast as possible was the only thing she could do. And on rainy nights, they’d go to their balconies, and they’d light up their cigarettes, or play a tune they used to dance along to, and they’d ask themselves: where did they go wrong? What was the thing that changed it all? Then they’d realised, ever too late, that it wasn’t a flick of a switch, rather, a culmination of hatred.