I remember the day that I met her.

Or well, “met” is a very loose term. I was drunk that night, and the alcohol had taken my better judgment and replaced it with something that was not. Two bar fights with eight complete strangers ( Three of them with me, the other five against me) and another fight where a guy had pulled a knife on me had left me with a black eye, a swollen body, and two bloody gashes on my arm and forehead. I remember the taste of my own blood and thinking I was going to die. Then she showed up. Through the streetlight she looked like an angel to me. And as far as I was concerned, that is exactly what she was. She put her hands on my shoulders, her light hair bouncing as she shook me, willing me to keep my eyes open. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t, and I blacked out. I woke up the next morning clean and bandaged, heart still beating. Alive, and totally oblivious to the girl who slept peacefully beside me. Her chestnut hair was splayed out over the pillow, and I wondered why such a girl would ever take a stubborn guy like me - no matter how injured - into her apartment. Eventually she woke up, and we talked. She told me that her name was Melanie, that she lived alone, and that she was a photographer. She asked for my name, and I calmly told her it was Brian. She asked me what I did for a living; I told her I hadn’t decided yet. “Where do you live?” I told her I no longer had a place to stay, so she gave me her spare.

It only took a second for me to realize how different we both were, and months of living together after that only strengthened my claims. Everything had a place with her. In the morning, the cereal was always out, and the table was always set; if it wasn’t, the bowls and cereal were always in the cabinets, the milk in the fridge, and the spoons in the drawers of the small kitchen. Whenever I got home from job hunting, everything was quiet and in place. She was, in a word, perfect; I, however, was far from it. I was always messy, and she was always clean. She took pride in never going over the speed limit; while I had the time of my life going at maximum speed. We got along pretty well though, and after three months, I asked her to be my girlfriend. She said yes.

Everything went smoothly for a while (a year, actually), and I was happy. Everywhere I looked, she was standing there, and that made me ecstatic. I was truly happy in that corny, head-in-the-clouds way that I thought I’d never know months ago, the night I went looking for death. Now, every day was an endless array of laughter, whether we were dancing around the apartment, watching a movie, or doing nothing. I could feel myself slipping away from the depression I felt that fateful night. I would sing songs to her on the guitar, even though I was a horrible singer, and we would both laugh at my lame attempt. She thought pancakes were a must on Saturdays, and I couldn’t disagree with her no matter how bad of a cook she was; maybe it was the fact that she looked so happy making them that stopped me from telling her. Or maybe I did tell her, but she still made them anyway. That’s just the person she was, and I loved her for it. We could’ve been inseparable, like lyrics and music. Without her, I felt like the background music of a song. Totally meaningless without the lyrics layered on top of them. But then things took a turn for the worse. We had a falling out. We had so many problems, most of which landed on my end. I, once again, was becoming an alcoholic like my own father, and I smoked just as many cigarettes as my mother had before she passed away over a year ago. I never listened and she never spoke up, the only time we ever heard the other person’s voice anymore was when we were yelling at the top of our lungs, stuck in yet another fight. She would yell at me, demanding - pleading, even - that I stop smoking, saying that I never spent any time with her anymore and that if I didn’t stop, she would leave, and I would yell right back, my drunken mind taking over, saying that her leaving sounded like the best idea I’d ever heard. She threw a glass at my head; I ducked just seconds before it made impact. And I slapped her, and even in my given state, I was shocked when I had realized what I had done. The feeling of remorse crept over me like a shadow, and I was overcome. She turned, swearing loudly, a mess of tears and sadness, and she told me to leave. So I got my own place, and for a while we both pretended not to care.

A week later, on one of my rare, sober nights, I check her facebook, and it becomes clear to me that her uncle died two months ago due to lung cancer. And now I regret not listening to her more than ever. She was hurting and I never listened. She probably tried to tell me once, I thought. I call her saying that I need her. That I’m sorry. That I was wrong. The only wrong thing she had every done was months ago, when she took me in that night. But she never answered when I called, and instead let it go to voicemail. I knew how much she was hurting, and I wished I could help. But after that there was no way she’d let me near her again, and she was right to do that. I’d already screwed this relationship, this girl, and my life. I never stopped calling, hoping that she might answer. And one day she did, to tell me to stop calling. To tell me to never come near her again. To tell me that she had found someone that she could actually depend on.

And I cried because I loved her. Because I hated myself for not listening. Because she deserved someone better, and she found someone. I cried because she was better off, and we both knew it.

Now today, It’s been two years, and I’ve stopped smoking. I am no longer an alcoholic, and I have a job as a journalist in the local paper. I know it’s too late for us, but I decide to go to her apartment for one last time, to say I’m sorry. I get all the way up to her floor, only to find the door opened just a crack. I push it open.

Inside, I see brown boxes stacked one on top of the other. Everything packed, except for the white curtains that had most likely come with the place. The windows were open, giving air to the already airy room. I can hear the buzz of traffic coming in from the window and birds chirping in the trees. It’s utterly cold in there, and the fact that both the door and the windows are open doesn’t help much. So I step inside, carefully closing the door behind me. I peek inside the kitchen. “Melanie?”

“Brian?”

I turned around to see her. She stood in the doorway, holding her car keys, just as beautiful as she had been when we were together, if not more. I looked her up and down. Her brown eyes were still as soft as ever. Her chestnut hair still turned golden in the sunlight. She was really there. I smiled at the thought, but then stopped as I remembered the horrible thing I had done.

“Moving out?” I said, my voice unsteady.

“I always said I would,” she replied coldly.

I’m not here to argue, I told myself. Taking a breath, I gathered my thoughts. “I just thought you deserved an apology.” She stayed silent, so I went on. “I got drunk, and things got out of hand. I’m sorry that I hit you-” my voice caught as I said it “- it doesn’t matter that I was drunk and that you did the right thing and never spoke to me again; you still deserve an apology. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I hurt you and caused you all this pain. I know that saying it won’t fix anything, but I wish it would. For your sake. But before I go on with my life, and you with yours, I just want you to know that I’ve changed. That finally, after so many years, I’ve found someone to give me a reason to. And I have you to thank for that. I love you, I really do. And hurting you is the one thing I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.” I stop, because by now my voice is shaking, and she hasn’t said a word.

I looked up at her as she wiped tears from her eyes. “I really loved you, too,” she stopped and looked at me. ” But I can’t do this, and you have to go. Now.”

She stepped to the side, clearing a way for me to pass her. I walked forward until we were shoulder to shoulder. “I hope you two have a nice life. Goodbye.” I stepped out, went down the stairs, passed by moving vans, and began my walk to the office.

What was I thinking? Why had I really done this? I kept walking even as the sun blinded me, but I didn’t care. I was deep in thought. I recalled that whole conversation (if you could even call it that). I thought about what she said. What I said. The way she looked - her with her brown eyes and chestnut hair. Did I really come there to say sorry or to try for a second chance? No, I thought to myself. Just to say sorry.

Then I was able to add everything up as the truth dawned on me; I should’ve known. The moving vans outside,… the boxes she had packed,…

And the golden ring on her finger.