Happy Place

by Emily Henry

I knew the only thing more painful than being without him would be being together knowing I no longer truly had him.

And what can I say? That I’m not happy? That I’ve tried dating someone else and it was the emotional equivalent of bingeing on saltines when all I wanted was a real meal? Or that there are whole parts of the city I avoid because they remind me of those first few months in California, when he still lived with me. That when I wake up too early to my screaming alarm, I still reach toward his side of the bed, like if I can hold on to him for a minute, it won’t be so hard to make it through another grueling day at the hospital, in a never-ending series of grueling days. That I still wake from dreams of his head between my thighs, and reach for my phone whenever something particularly ridiculous happens in the cozy mystery I’m reading, only to remember I can’t tell him. That I spend more time trying not to think about him than actually thinking about anything. All that heady nostalgia and sweltering lust has become combustible, erupting into anger. “Yes, Wyn,” I say. “I’m happy.”

If he can be happy, surely I can be fine.

Because feelings were changeable, and people were unpredictable.

The feeling of being so grateful to have something worth missing.

“No,” he says quietly. “In every universe, it’s you for me. Even if it’s not me for you.”

“You never annoy me,” he says. I look up, catch him watching me. My laugh is breathless, woozy. “We both know that’s not true.” He studies me for a second, brow furrowed. “Frustrate, maybe. Not annoy.” “What’s the difference?” I ask. His eyes drop to my legs and back up. “When you’re annoyed, you don’t want to be around a person.” His chin shifts to the left, not quite a shake of his head. “I always want to be around you.”

“How is it possible to love someone so much and have it all just go away?”

Because he can promise me anything, but in the end, feelings could come and go, and we’ll be powerless to stop the change.

It doesn’t matter that I never got concrete answers about what broke us. What matters is that we broke.

“Everyone fights with the people they love, Harriet,” he says. “What matters is how you do it.”

“Love means constantly saying you’re sorry, and then doing better.”

Like even when something beautiful breaks, the making of it still matters.

Want is a kind of thief. It’s a door in your heart, and once you know it’s there, you’ll spend your life longing for whatever’s behind it.

I want my life to be like—like making pottery. I want to enjoy it while it’s happening, not just for where it might get me eventually.

I’d rather have you five days a year than anyone else all the time. I’d rather argue with you than not talk, and whether we’re together or we’re not, I’m yours, so let’s be together,

I’m terrified for you, honey. That you’re going to wake up one day and realize you built your life around someone else and there’s no room for you.