.

It takes something of yours to be stolen for you to realize everything. And everything becomes as clear as day. You mentally kick yourself for missing it before.

You can't do this anymore. You're pushing everyone away. You're constantly letting everyone down and the more people realize this, the more they get angry at you. The more they scream at you. You tell yourself if only you had waited a bit to figure things out, if you hadn't tried to insert the teleporter under your skin so soon, it wouldn't have gotten infected, you wouldn't have had to remove it, it would have just stayed there. It wouldn't have been removed from your room while you took a shower. You wouldn't have immediately felt panicked and anxious for it not being there. You depend on it. More than you like to admit, because it's your security blanket. You're fully aware that a grown man at forty-one shouldn't be like this, but you're fucked up. You have a lot of things wrong with you, and this is just the last straw. The thing that finally makes you see it.

You know what makes you scared. And it's something that most people are not scared of. Ever. And once you admit it, and scream it out, there isn't that relief that most people get when they say those three words. Because she doesn't say them back.

Because you tell her that you've been pushing her away because you love her (which is backwards but you know it) and she doesn't feel the same. It took a lot for you to finally admit that, to admit that to her and to yourself and you had expected her to say that she loved you too, that she understood why you had pushed so hard against her. That you were scared, that the last time you actually really and truly loved someone they left you high and dry, and that you are so scared to let that part of you known again. That you know it's scary, but you maybe realized that you want to try to be happy.

It doesn't happen that way. It doesn't happen at all. You don't ever put yourself out there, because of the rejection, because of what might happen. You had thought you were safe. You were wrong.

You deserve to be alone. You can't possibly make anyone happy, that much is evident now. You don't even make your friends happy, and you're convinced that they only tolerate you because they're just used to you by now, that you're just not a good person. That it's just "Drew being Drew" but there's nothing that you can do to fix that. You've put your mother in jail. You had to murder your own brother as he lunged at you. You've been tortured by people you called friends, and while you've done your best to move past it, you haven't. Your life is messed up, and every single part of it is your fault, even if it really isn't. You always blame yourself, and you will continue to do so. It's the only constant in your life that you have.

The plan originally was to give up and go home because you were angry. Instead, you give up and go home because you feel broken. You leave the vacation, you leave the two bedroom suite you were sharing with your wife, and you go home. You don't teleport home, because you don't know where your teleporter is, and now you just don't care. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters really anymore. You tell yourself that everyone will be much happier now. That maybe she'll be happier now. It's the first time in almost three years that you're the one who leaves first, and you hate yourself for it but you know it's for the best. Even if it's her ultimate rejection that makes you leave in the first place. And arriving home, to the apartment that the two of you share, you look over to her bedroom -- because really, you're too much of a fucking coward to even share a bed with your own wife, you pathetic fuck -- and you sigh heavily. She deserves better. She will always deserve better than you. Everyone does. That's why she can't say it back, because you make it hard for anyone to love you.

It doesn't take long to find the divorce papers that you've had drawn up in case of an emergency, and you go through and sign each and every line. You sign all the other copies too, because you know she's going to rip one up. Maybe she'll burn the other. Then maybe she'll actually sign. You don't know. You just sign them all, and you leave an envelope addressed to your lawyer, so she knows where to send it. Even though you said you'd see her when she came back, you're not planning on being here when she comes home.

You don't bother to unpack your suitcase as you scroll through your phone as you find flights that are leaving Boston today and you pick the first one you see, not caring about how expensive it is, not caring about where the location is. It doesn't matter, and you need to get as far away from everything as you can. You can't be around people right now.

You lasted a little longer than a month. Marriage apparently isn't for you. Falling in love and trying to be happy, it isn't for you. This life, whatever the hell everyone wanted for you, isn't for you. You're tired. Tired of making sure everyone is happy when you're not, tired of being told to 'get over it' and 'fucking get a life'. Tired of being looked at with rolling eyes because you're too anxious and depressed to get out of bed, of out your head, out of a bad situation (pick an answer. It applies.) Nothing you do is right by anyone's standards, and trying to make people happy apparently isn't good enough for anyone, and you're done. You've tried to let down your walls, finally be vulnerable, finally allow yourself some happiness and...it fails. They're all happier on their own without you weighing them down. You tell yourself it's better this way. But, before you leave again, you make sure to apologize to a friend that has been getting the brunt of your anger and sadness, and it's a blanket apology. For everything you've ever done, for everything you've ever said. For being you. It might not be good enough, it might not ever be good enough, but for now, that's all you have.

Your wedding ring is the last thing you take off, as you rest it on top of the papers. Sighing softly, you ignore the sinking feeling that you have, the wave of sadness that washes over you, as you grab your suitcase and walk out the door. You won't be here when she gets home, and with any luck, she won't be here when you get home.

Because you finally tell her that you love her, and she doesn't feel the same. There's no point in waiting around here anymore.