She\'s gone.
She\'s left.
She says she\'ll be back later.
Even though, I roll my eyes and tiredly insist that there\'s nothing to be happy about at seven in the morning on a Saturday, I want to believe that I\'ll see her smile so early in the morning.
Even though, I brush it off like it\'s no big deal, I want to believe that I\'ll hear her voice tell me she loves me within the next twenty-four hours.
Even though, I don\'t like being trapped between someone\'s arms, I want to believe that I\'ll feel her skin touch mine when she gives me a hug.
I want to believe in all these, but I know better.
I know what she meant by \"later.\"
I know I will not feel her touch when she forces me to give her a hug.
I know I will not hear her desperate voice tell me she loves me, and her awkward pregnant pause while waiting for my response.
I know I will not wake up and walk out to the kitchen to see her cooking with a stupidly happy smile on her face.
I want to believe that all these \"will nots\" are just temporary- like all the times before- but something in my gut says they\'re permanent.
Something about the way her smile was just slightly fearful-
Something about the way her voice shook as she said goodbye-
Something about the way her hug was slightly tighter and more prolonged-
Something about the way my mom walked out the door just screamed:
This. This right here, is the last time we\'ll breathe the same air.