For the rest of her life, she would blame herself for the death of all that could have been because she decided that the risks, whatever they were (she didn’t know), were too great.  She said nothing on the phone, really, the first time they had spoken in months, while he tried to convince her (bless his heart) that the risks, whatever they were (he didn’t know), were not insurmountable.

They were both dissatisfied by the course their relationship had taken, and were equally frustrated in their inability to right things. They had been the best couple: fashionable, catty, glamorous. (They could only be those things independently now.) They loved each other deeply. She felt that she should have done more to alleviate the stress that built over the years. She felt she should have said I love you more.

Now was her chance to do that, to turn over a new leaf or whatever. But she didn’t, and instead told him that she would do nothing to fix what seemed so, so broken.

“I just want to put things back how they were,” she said, before hanging up.

So did he. But she meant it in a different way.