Jill Knapp - What Happens to Men When They Move to Manhattan?

When I had gotten to class earlier that day, I had made a concerted effort to ignore Michael, positioning myself on the other side of the auditorium-sized classroom. Sure, I was being juvenile, but I was still hurt from his absence at my party. I used to feel so safe and comfortable with my life.

Thoughts of Nicholas flooded my head, making concentration on the lecture extremely difficult. I glanced at my watch and realized class was almost over. I couldn’t wait to see him.

When the professor said, “Until next week, class,” I knew I was in the clear to dart out of the classroom.

I quickly headed outside and hailed a cab to Nicholas’s apartment. Much to my happiness, a cab pulled up immediately.

“Where to, missy?” the driver said, through a thick accent.

“10th Street and Avenue A!” I spat out.

Since I was in the Washington Square area, I probably could have walked to the Lower East Side, but I was too anxious to see Nicholas and to put this whole fight behind us. A short cab ride later, I was outside Nick’s apartment. I feverishly hit the buzzer three times until the door unlocked. I threw open the heavy front door, ran up the four flights of stairs, and burst through his door. Ready to be greeted by a hug and an apology, I was disappointed to see Nicholas sitting on his bed, making no effort to even stand up and give me a proper greeting. Warm beads of sweat rolled down my back as my paranoia accelerated.

Feeling defeated, I slowly closed the door behind me and cautiously made my way over to him, careful not to make any sudden movement.

“Hey,” I said, tiptoeing toward him. “Baby, are you okay?”

Upon closer inspection, Nicholas looked upset, as if he had been crying. He was dressed down even more than usual, wearing nothing but a plain white undershirt and baggy gray sweatpants, which he usually reserved for times when he was too sick to dress himself. A wave of horror flooded over me. Something was really wrong.

“Listen,” he started.

I braced myself for the bad news.

My mind flooded with a thousand possibilities. Had he gotten fired? Had someone in his family taken ill? Was he being evicted? I sat next to him on the floor and placed my hands on his knees.

“What is it, Nick?” I asked. I folded my hands behind my back, after realizing I had been anxiously peeking at my cuticles for a few minutes.

He still wouldn’t look at me. His brown hair hung over his gorgeous eyes, making it impossible for me to feel connected. I cautiously lifted up my right hand and pushed a few strands of hair out of his face.

Without even looking up to meet my gaze he said, “I can’t be with you.”

The air went out of the room, as though a huge force had hit me in the chest. My head started to spin and I felt more fear than I had ever felt before.

Can’t be with me?

I shook my head and squinted. “What do you mean?” I asked, unable to speak louder than a whisper.

Still not looking at me, he unleashed his well-prepared speech.

“I don’t know what happened, Amalia, but I just don’t feel it anymore.”

His words sounded so cold and formal, he couldn’t have been talking about us like that, not with such emptiness and detachment. He finally lifted his head up, but still refused to look me in the eyes. Anger momentarily replaced my sadness, and with it came a warm pressure behind my eyes that made its way down to my chest. My head was suddenly killing me and I was having a hard time concentrating. I couldn’t recall a time I had ever felt this angry with him. I wanted to tell him what a coward he was being, but I couldn’t form the words.

“You were all I ever wanted, for so long. I even remember what you were wearing the first day I met you,” he said in a breathy voice. “But I don’t feel like that person anymore. I don’t feel like that guy you met back in college. And I think, no I know, I need time alone to figure out what I want out of life.”

Heavy flows of tears streamed down my face. How could this be happening?

“Whatever this is, we can work through it,” I muttered, through sobs.

Finally looking right at me, Nicholas took a deep breath and said, “No. Honey, it’s too late.”

There was no way I could just give up and accept this.

“Just give it some time, please! I know you’re angry with me for going on my trip but we can talk about it. It’s not like I am moving to Brazil, this can’t just be about me not being there when you start your internship,” I pleaded.

“Why are you even going?” he said, this time looking right at me.

“Because I have always wanted to go,” I said. “I’ve always been honest about how much I want to travel. Obviously I can’t get up and leave the country whenever I want, but that’s why I booked this so far in advance. And honestly, it’s something I am doing, for me.”

“Well I think that sounds really selfish.” he said.

“Please just tell me why you think that’s selfish, and we can figure this out together,” I pleaded. As I listened to myself speak, I knew I was in the right. I didn’t believe what I was doing was selfish at all, but I was willing to put my pride on the back-burner to salvage my relationship.

But it was no use. Nicholas stood up and walked over to the kitchen. He came back to the bed and handed me a box.

“Here, I packed all of your things,” he said coldly.

It suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t an impulsive decision. Nicholas must have been planning to break up with me for a few days, if he had taken the time to pack up my things.

“What the hell is this? You’ve wanted to be with me for so long, for years!” I cried. “You convinced me to be with you, coerced me into falling in love with you, and now after one fight that doesn’t even have to really do with our relationship, you’re leaving me?”

I was crying, hard. Harder than I had ever cried before. I expected him to listen to me, to consider my words and realize he was being foolish and impulsive. I expected him to grab me and say I was right, that he made a mistake and to forget he had even brought any of this nonsense up, but all he said was, “Yes.”

I let out a whimper. As angry as I was, I couldn’t express it. My anger felt caged and controlled, by my overwhelming confusion and sadness.

“We belong together, we can fix this. We can fix anything,” I uttered with the last drop of fight in me.

But I knew it was useless, that it was over.

“No, Amalia. We can’t.”

Still sitting on the floor, I watched as he walked over to the front door and held it open for me to leave. I peeled myself off the floor and grabbed the box of my belongings. Without any hope of changing his mind, I looked him in the eyes and said, “I love you, and I will never get over this.”

With no emotion or remorse, he looked at the front door and then glanced back at me.

“That’s too bad.”

“Amalia?” someone whispered sweetly. “Wake up, please.”

I opened my eyes and found Olivia standing over my bed, holding a mug of what appeared to be coffee in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other.

“Please go away,” I mumbled through sobs, pulling the plush covers back over my face.

The cheap, worn-out mattress was the only comfort I had felt in days, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it up.

“You have to get up,” she said, “You haven’t left this apartment in five days and I’m really worried about you.”

Besides Olivia’s daily check-ins and running into Christina in the kitchen, I hadn’t had contact with anyone in almost a week. Christina had continued to buzz Olivia up, most likely relieved she didn’t have to deal with my melancholy herself. Every grueling moment spent awake was occupied by an influx of thoughts about Nicholas. I had been crying from the minute I woke up, until the minute I went to sleep every day since he left. I had finally found it easier to just stay asleep than deal with the all-consuming pain.