His screams are silent and those feel the worst. It’s a quiet hatred that cuts me to the core. As we stand on the street corner his icy, blue eyes bare into me, threatening things that can never be spoken out loud. The wind suddenly picks up and the chilly breeze reminds me that I left my jacket, along with his friends, back in the warm club that pounded with boisterous music, trying to drown out the desperation and shame in the air.

I feel the tears well up behind eyes that are mixed with confusion and love. I plead in barely a whisper, “I don’t understand, what are you doing?” I hold my hands to his chest in a desperate hope of keeping him there, keeping him close. He grits his teeth and takes a step back, I am suddenly too small, too weak and too scared to protect against whatever may come next. He looks as though he’s thinking it over, his glare never leaving my face. A shudder runs through my whole body, but it’s no longer from the bitter, night air but from the hatred that pulses from his body toward mine.

He chooses to step around me and continues to stalk off. I feel the weight of defeat in that moment. I am suddenly too tired to keep running after him. His large figure stumbles toward the fluorescent lights of the gas station ahead and I run a cold hand over my frozen, goose-bumped arm. I clutch my phone in my other hand and stare down at it. I seem to stand there, staring forever. A solitary tear finally makes its landing on the brightly lit screen and I consider dialing the number that gives me comfort and security. Home or what used to be home. “He’s supposed to be home now,” I silently chide myself. I still can’t help but picture the phone ringing and hearing the disoriented voice on the other end immediately ask what is wrong, because nobody calls for good reasons at this hour. I then picture my mother leaning over and shaking my father awake, to which I’m sure he would quickly jump out of bed and hurriedly dress to my rescue.

I brush the thought from my mind though, as quickly as it came. This isn’t the first time I’ve had it and it won’t be the last. I instead listen for the voices behind me that ring with drunken slurs of bad decisions and poor choices. I turn again and look ahead to see him in the light of the gas station, slightly swaying as he stands over an aisle, choosing a late night snack as though I wasn’t standing here, alone in the dark, with my heart breaking in two. If I chose to make that one call it would change everything. One call and this would no longer be us, this would no longer be something I could ignore. No longer would I be able to blame moments like this on him having ‘one too many.’ Everyone would know if I were to make that call, they would judge him, they would tell me to leave. I had been that friend to so many others, I know that that is what will happen if any of his or my weakness’ were to show. I’m a big girl, I can handle this.

So instead, I think hard and try to remember the mornings when he rolls over and clutches me close. Whispering words that only he can say. I try to remember the love I feel in those moments. It comes back slowly but it begins to fill me up, starting all the way down at my toes. Under the brightly lit stars I am suddenly warmed remembering his lips on mine in a way that isn’t meant to be hurtful but instead speaks of the love that is still between us. I know then that I can’t risk losing that yet.

One more night and I get one more morning with him. One more time. It won’t always be this way. One day he’ll wake up and realize he loves those mornings more than he loves these nights. One day he’ll realize he loves me more than the contents of a bottle. I wipe the tears from my face and walk over to wait for him outside. “He just needs some time alone, I pushed him too far,” I again remind/scold myself. “One more night and then it will be morning again.”