This time, when Pamela told Rohan not to touch her, he listened.
They sat down across from one another at the café. It was the first place he ever took her out when they came to this city together, and it has since become their favorite place to meet thanks to its location almost directly between their two workplaces. This time, however, I think that Pamela was only thinking of its very visible front patio, positioned as it is on a busy street, with many people walking by. So many eyes, however careless and dispassionate, would prevent Rohan either from shouting or from trying to persuade Pamela through touch.
They sat directly across from one another, Rohan watching silently as Pamela stirred her coffee, took a sip, and added more sugar. When she looked up at him, he flinched—not so any human would see it, but I certainly did.
“So I’m going to tell you what I need,” Pamela said. “Again. And this time you are going to respect what I have to say.”
“Pam, I do respect—”
“You are also,” she went on, her voice still level, but harder now, “not going to interrupt me.”
He sat back in his chair, a mulish expression coming across his face. “I thought you wanted us to talk,” he muttered.
“I never said that,” Pamela said. “I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen.”
He picked up his own cup. “So talk,” he said.
Pamela took a deep breath. “I love you,” she said, and for the first time her voice shook. I stepped closer, one wing spread around her, and her aura steadied. “But you and I are headed into a bad place. You stress me out, you hurt me, and you are pushing me somewhere I don’t want to be. I know you don’t mean to do that,” she added as he opened his mouth to protest. “But you do. And I’m not going to let you anymore.”
“Pam, what are you talking about?” Rohan asked, reaching for her hand.
She pulled it away from him. “The other night, I should never have stayed with you. I should never have let you tell me what I want.”
Rohan stared at her, his mouth pressed into a line. “What do you want?” he asked.
She took another sip of her coffee. “I want you,” she admitted. “But I want you the way you fit me, or at least you used to. And you don’t, not anymore.” She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t have the right to make you anything but who you are, any more than you have the right to try and change me. So I’m sticking to my decision to break up with you. And if you really respect me, you will not try to change my mind.”
That struck home with him—he may have not acknowledged it, but he knew he was trying to change Pamela’s mind when he sent that message. Tears came to his eyes, and he lowered his head.
Pamela looked at him for a long moment, trying to memorize him. Then she rose and went around the table, kissing his forehead. “I really do love you, you know,” she said, and her voice cracked again. “But I hope I won’t always be in love with you. Because that would really suck.”
It made him laugh, and he looked up, a thin mask of amusement unable to hide his misery. “Yeah,” he said, and he gave her his hand. “It would.”
She squeezed his hand once, and allowed herself one instant of wishing. Then she took a deep breath, said, “Goodbye, Ro,” and turned and walked away.
She is exhausted, as am I, and we are both hurting, though she feels much deeper pain than I do. What comforts me, though, is that there is no shame tainting that hurt. She will miss Rohan, but with a sorrow that comes from her past, one that will heal. She will be able to move on, stronger and more aware of who she is and who she wants to be. For that, I am glad.
It is true—action is more powerful than intention. Perhaps I should not be so timid in the future.