“Can I put a toothbrush in your bathroom? I mean… I kinda always stay here anyway,” he said, looking hesitant as he waved a toothbrush around.
“Yeah, yeah, sure you can,” I replied, acting nonchalant, as if my heart wasn’t beating faster. Just because he wanted to leave a toothbrush. At my place. A sign of permanence, at the very least. A sign of commitment, at the very best.
“Thanks!” he replied with a smile as he went to the bathroom, presumably to put his toothbrush there.
Months went by. A toothbrush is not the only thing of his that is in my flat–shirts, CDs, books, even his goldfish–made its way into my flat, and life. That is until they’re not there anymore.
One night after a long day at work, I went inside the flat just to find it strangely clean. There were no shirts and socks lying around. His little makeshift bookshelf-slash-CD rack on my desk was cleared off. Even Fishy was gone. I then noticed a scrap of paper on the coffee table, with a hastily scrawled I’m sorry written on it.
I sat on the couch. I called. Went to voice mail. I texted. Just read. White noise was prevalent in the flat, when normally it would be filled with Kanye’s voice and sounds of laughter. I sat there for a long time, thinking about what went wrong–what I did wrong.
I realized that maybe nothing went wrong, that it’s just time for us to end, that our time is up. Nothing wrong with that, except for the fact that he didn’t have the fucking guts to finish it in person. I don’t have time for people like that.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t cry later.
After a long shower (read: a long cry in the shower), I went to the sink to brush my teeth when I saw it. The toothbrush he left time ago.
He left his fucking toothbrush behind.
I almost cried again but no, I told myself, you wouldn’t cry over ghosting assholes anymore, you can do this. I took a deep breath and smiled a little. Took his toothbrush out of the little cup and put it under the sink with the cleaning solutions.
I needed a new toilet brush, anyway.