His girlfriend was moving in, he said. I knew this was part of the deal. Not just his moving on, but also the fact that if I were to come to the apartment, our former apartment, it would look different. It already did, but it was his familiar touches, not hers. He seemed anxious about this.

I said, “But this is what happens in relationships. Women know what isn’t yours, and they slowly sift those things out of your life.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want any of the things back, though.”

“Are you sure?”

I was, but it still felt like a rejection of our previous life together.

Though we texted each other quite often, she did not enter into our conversations. Instead, they felt like a space where we could still share time together. I never asked questions about her; I did not want to know. At dinner, she became a topic of conversation—and I was giving him relationship advice.

“Maybe you should have given yourself more time to be alone,” I said.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t imagine living with someone again.”

“It’s hard.”

“She’ll want to get married. Then what will you do?”

We were two people who had gone through the same trauma—divorce. We could speak candidly with each other in ways that non-divorced people could not. I knew I didn’t want to date because I was afraid that someone would want something from me that I was unable to give—commitment, love, trust, an idea of a future.

“I can’t get married again,” Bobby said.

“I know. I know.”

We shared this pain together. We both felt it.

Unfair or not, I felt superior in that moment. I was avoiding this pain by not participating. He was opening himself to be hurt and to hurt someone. I, on the other hand, was working hard on not feeling this loss, because I did not want to feel something that I could not recover from.

“In all of this I have discovered that I don’t know how to be a ‘we,’” I said.

“What?”

“It sounds simple, but it’s everything that’s wrong with me. I don’t know how to be part of a ‘we.’”

He nodded, and though I was ashamed, my eyes started to fill with tears.

“I have always subscribed to ‘I alone can fix this. I don’t need anyone. I don’t need you,’” I said. “Because I don’t know how to be a ‘we.’”

I waited for him to say something, but he just looked at me; it felt like my tears were spilling over, but I wasn’t sure. I looked away, because I couldn’t bear to see tears filling up his eyes, either. It felt cruel that we had to be apart to have this kind of growth.

“So—what are you going to do?”