I was dying. At least that’s how it felt as I watched Eric pack his bags, carefully folding each shirt or pants into a neat square before placing it- in its color-coordinated spot- into his suitcase.

“Five weeks…” he was murmuring. “Just five weeks…”

I opened my mouth to say something, but then immediately was shushed by Eric’s manly voice. It sounded harsh as he spoke; hurriedly trying to get in everything he needed to say.

“I love you and everything, Becky…” His words trailed off for unknown reasons.

Perhaps he was rethinking this whole thing. Perhaps he would decide that it wasn’t worth losing me, that he was acting childish. Maybe, just maybe, he would unpack all of his things and decide to stay.

“You hurt me.” he finished.

I stared at him, trying desperately to remember every detail of his face before he left, but found it hard. His profile was so intricate, so orderly that if one detail were to be shifted even the tiniest bit, Eric would become ugly. What was I thinking? Ugly was just something that Eric would never have to worry about. He was the ideal beautiful boyfriend. His grades were set to perfection, his eyes a striking blue. He was rich and seemed to have it all. His mom was the town’s secretary to the mayor, and his father was a high-end realtor. Yup, Eric did have it all. I had had it all as well. Just being with Eric had made me so happy, had made me feel complete. Now I had done it again.

I had ruined everything.

“Can’t we just talk about this?” I pleaded.

“No.” he said it so coldly that I jumped in surprise.

“Oh.” I managed to mumble.

Eric stopped packing his things and turned toward me. His eyes were full of blind anger.

“I…” he began, then paused.

I fiddled with the necklace that hung around my neck, waiting eagerly for him to speak.

“I gave up two years of my life to come out here and be with you. You were apparently the girl I loved. But you proved me wrong, Becky. You proved me very wrong.”

I gulped, fighting back tears that were pushing against the backs of my eyeballs. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry.” Eric let out a snort. “You make me move out here away from my dream; you publicly bash the current company I was working for. And to top it all off you ignore me for two months straight! And you think that sorry is going to help this!”

“Yes.” I mumbled. Lately, talking to Eric was like being lectured from my father. Boring, and always resulting in my feelings getting hurt.

“Ha…” He laughed an acual belly laugh. “Ha ha ha!”

“What?!” I was growing angry and impatient now.

“It’s just…” Eric began. “It’s just, you are so pathetic.” Eric was done packing, leaving half of our apartment bare. He walked toward the door and paused to look back over his shoulder at me.

“Good-bye, Becky.” And he exited, a dramatic flourish of his hand emphasizing his happiness for an excuse to get rid of me.

Eric was my fourth boyfriend that had stormed out on me, seemingly all for the same reasons. Not only did I have bad luck with men, but I had a knack for ignoring my “Soul mates” completely. When things got rough, I found it easier to just be alone, blocking out everyone who truly cared for me. Like, for instance, when my sister died. It had been April 22 of 2004. The day had been clear and sunny with no rain showers or wind at all. I was 17 and my sister, Darcy was 25. I had been sitting at the kitchen table in my house, reading the newest book from my favorite author, A .C Anderson. Lately, my sister had been having problems. She refused to say anything about them except that she was depressed, and felt sheltered. My mother, being the usual working bee she was, had hardly noticed, not doing anything except for the occasional worried glance or curt nod at Darcy. Although no one dared to voice it aloud -not me, my mom, my dad, or my younger sister Kaitlin- we all worried about Darcy. I had been seeing her sneak out at night recently. She would creep down the stairs where I could see a clear view of her in sweatpants and some type of tight shirt, unaware of the fact that I stayed up unusually late to watch TV. When she came to see if I was sleeping, I would pretend. Then I would watch, as she applied makeup in the mirror by the front door, tie her hair in a high ponytail, and then grab the car keys. She would arrive back home several hours later-around 4am- wearing the same clothes, but looking rangled and messy. She would stumble up the stairs and I would here the creak as her bedroom door shut. The next night, the same things would go on. Then one night she hadn’t come home. And for the next two weeks she didn’t come home. We finally heard from her on a chilly Saturday evening. She said that she was staying at a friend’s house just outside of town, which, we all knew, meant that we wouldn’t be seeing her for a long time. My dad often argued with my mother, saying that the two should go get Dracy and bring her home. But my mother, too busy with her law firm, would use the same tired excuse.

“Richard,” she would say in her professional voice “She is an adult and I’m sure that she can make decisions for herself.”

“Jo, I know that, but in her fragile condition I feel the need to keep an eye on her.” My father would try to reason, but it never seemed to work.

“Uh huh.” my mother would say, and that would end the conversation. My sister remained at her friends.

So anyway, I had been sitting at the table, reading a book, just two and half months after Darcy had first gone to stay with her friend. She was still there and I was starting to miss her. The phone had rung, and I answered it nonchalantly, not recognizing the voice on the other end at first. Then I realized it was Kaitlin, who at the time had been 15. She was crying. Uncontrolably.

As soon as I heard the news, I burst into tears, rushing to call my parents who already knew. Apparently, Dracy’s friend, Joyce, had found her lying motionless and not breathing in her bed early that morning. She had called the police who had said that the cause had been starvation and a minor consumption of drugs. The horrible news pushed my family even farther apart until we barely spoke; only the occasional word at dinner, or a sentence or two on the phone.

My mother and I refused to go to the funeral, claiming that we were just not ready for it. So my last memory of my sister was the night where she had snuck out late, wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a tight pink tank top. I never saw her again, and regretted ever pretending to be asleep when she came to check on me. I kept telling myself that if I had stayed awake and told her to sit down and watch some tv with me, if I had tried to stop her late night outings, she would still be with us. So partially, I blamed myself for her death. Except, I never told anyone this. After that, I just pushed everone in my life away. I wouldn’t return my friend’s phone calls or answer any e-mails. Soon everyone at school just stopped talking to me. For the rest of my school years, I had been known as “the girl who suddenly stopped talking.”

Then, at age 18, I moved out of my house and into a noisy town just outside of Harrisburg. I lived by myself in a closet-sized apartement. When I was almost about to turn 19, I met Eric. We’d both been at a café, sipping our lattes’. I had spotted him reading an A .C Anderson book and had gone over to discuss my favorite author‘s style with him. At the time I was only hoping for a new friend. What I got was a new boyfriend.

I sat back on my bed, just staring at the open door of my apartment, hoping that Eric would realize that he still loved me, and come back. I waited, and waited, and waited, but he never came. Finally, the tears that had been threatening to come out did. They trckled down my cheeks in slow currents. I silently mourned, only letting out the faintest whimper every now and then.

I knew why Eric had dumped me, and why he was so mad. It had been, yet again because I had started ignoring him. I would leave the apartment whenever he walked into the door. Soemtimes I would call and tell him not to come home because I wanted to be by myself. I never ate dinner with him, and we never did anything together anymore. Instead, I wallowed in mournful sorrow all by myself, permantly trying to erase Eric’s existence while still telling myself that, because I had a boyfriend, I was not alone. I guess I started to ignore Eric because I was still not over Darcy’s death. I was scared to get too close to him, in case anything happened to him. I didn’t need my heart broken and pained again. It was easier to stay detached instead of starting to really have feelings. Eric got fed up. And now here I was, sitting alone in the bedroom of my apartment, crying softly to myself, wishing that the world -my world- was different.

I didn’t know what to do next. My other three boyfriends had stormed out on me in resurants, cafés, and supermarkets. But, of course, Eric had to be different. He had decided to wait until I got home from the library to begin packing all of his things, probably to make sure that I saw him. Eric was never one for many words, and he hated emotional confrontations too. The way I saw it was that Eric had wanted me to see him packing so that I would get the message without him telling me himself. Instead, I started to cry, and eventually helped him pack up all of his clothes. I didn’t know why, but I was kind of relieved that Eric was leaving me. I had wanted my own apartment for quite awhile. One that I shared with no one. One that I could sit in quiet solitude, and eat loads of chocolate ice cream. Now that Eric was gone, I could do just that without having to worry about him walkng in the door and seeing me watching some lovey dovey romance movie. Still, I wasn’t sure what to do in my own time other than sulk.

So, I did just that…