As things between Veronica and I grew more serious, we began contemplating our living arrangements. At that moment in time, it didn’t make much sense for us to move in together due to our commutes; one of us would lose and neither of us were a fan of being stuck in traffic.

For me it was the lack of productivity that occured. For Veronica it was the added stress of being stuck in traffic and the increased probability of an accident.

Usually after a long week of early mornings and late nights, the weekend was ours to spend together. One day, usually Saturday, we’d spend our day indoors; shut off and decompressing from the noise of the world.

Most of that day would be spent conversing or sitting side-by-side in silence or listening to music.

It began an educational period.

Veronica tutored me on the intricacies of the female psyche. When I told close friends about this, there was typically a sexist (“But I’m not sexist”) joker commenting that she was teaching me how I was always wrong. It wasn’t so much about how I was wrong, but why I was wrong.

I considered myself pretty self-aware and with that came an awareness of my many faults. She helped me improve things I could improve, while embracing those faults that were unique aspects of my personality. Veronica, more than anything else, made me aware of my lack of empathy. While she didn’t necessarily teach me to be more empathetic, she at least built in me the notion that I should consider empathy as an emotional reaction or, at the very least, the act of portraying empathy in my interactions with others.

For her, I introduced her to the neo-geek culture of our generation. It was a well-balanced meal of indie films and comic book movies; novels of time-traveling romances or fantastical world-building; small-batch whiskeys and regional craft brews.

During this time there was an album I knew by heart. It was the type of album that I always recommended when people asked what type of music I liked to listen to. It was the type of album that you had to listen to without distractions, with the lights turned down low, noise-canceling headphones, and the volume turned up comfortably high. If a certain green smokable bud was involved, it made the experience even deeper.

When I played it for Veronica, I had to tell her to be quiet a half-dozen times before she listened. She wanted to know about the band, what else they did, were there any songs on the radio, and what each of the songs were about.

“Just listen,” I would tell her until she finally quieted down.

Mallets on a bass drum softly defines the beat.

A cello starts a low, slow whine.

A guitar soon joins before a piano starts, playing the melody.

It was a story about the loss of love from a relationship gone south. The story was sad, but by the end of the album there was hope.

I could hear enough through the headphones to know where she was at in the album. Her eyes were distant; absorbing, listening to every musical note and lyrical word. There were moments when her eyes would focus and meet mine and I’d know, just by that look, what she had experienced.

There were so many times in the not-so-distant past when I would be caught up and carried away from our experiences together. In the age of technology and the streaming experience, there was an endless stream of distractions. I missed moments like this; moments where we were connected through a shared experience.

Sundays were usually reserved for the outdoors when weather permitted. We would hike or ride bikes, spending hours in the nearby foothills. Some nights we would spend underneath the stars. By then the city was quiet. In the right spot, you couldn’t hear the hum of traffic on the freeway. We’d look up speculating what we were seeing in constellations; sometimes seeing the slow trek of the space station across the night sky and on one rare occasion we saw Venus setting between the ridges of two nearby mountains.

During the summer you could hear the buzz of insects, the rustling breath of air through the grass and trees, the croaking of frogs in the distance.

Sweat was a beautiful thing during those months.

In the quietness under the stars you feel perspiration building and sliding down your back. On some Saturdays to do our part for the climate, we wouldn’t turn the air on in the apartment and we’d spend most of the day in bed. She’d lay on her belly reading and at times I would catch a single drop of sweat emerging from her hairline. My eyes would chase it down her neck, down between her shoulder blades until it disappeared under her shirt and my imagination took over.

Occasionally, Veronica would catch me staring and would throw a book my way and I’d flip through a couple pages, but I’d mostly stare at her face, her neck, the low swoop of her tank top and think about what was hidden underneath. My imagination would wander. I’d imagine my hands on her body, under her tank top, and then the inevitable finale. I would recommend in those moments that we retreat into the bedroom, but she would laugh and go back to reading.

It’s strange remembering those moments now. Most of the memories I have of us being physical involve her initiating the contact. Veronica thrived on physical contact. If we fought—and we did—she would want a hug or to be held, but I would remain emotionally and as physically distant as I could.

What would have happened if I just took her book away and took her by the hand instead and showed her what I wanted.

“I love you.”

We’re standing in the kitchen. Her back is towards me as she stands by the sink rinsing some berries. She turns, smiling, shaking the water off a double-handful of strawberries and blueberries. “Why?” she asks. She sets the berries in a bowl, popping one in her mouth before handing the bowl to me.

This declaration of love was a game we continued to play and one that I was horrible at.

“Isn’t being loved enough?” I answer.

She repositions the question, “What do you love about me?”

I pause too long and she smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly.

“I love that,” I say, reaching out and brushing her temples with my thumb. She leans into it.

Veronica’s eyes wrap around me. The strap of her tank top was covering my favorite mole, so I moved it, kissing the spot. “I love that you’re avoiding the question,” she says, shrugging her shoulder, moving the strap back into place.

“I love that you accept me for who I am and my declarations of love for what they are,” I say, smiling.

She gives me the look that says I’m in trouble, but then her eyes begin to crinkle again as her pursed lips become a smile.

I think a part of me believed that throwing around the words “I love you” cheapened the meaning of the words. It had to be something that was meant to be said rather than casually weaved into a conversation.

As our lives progressed together, my rules around those words became a habit. For some reason I thought that my outward actions demonstrated enough, so the need to say it wasn’t there on a regular basis. There were moments I felt like I should say it or that I needed to say it. There were moments when I felt so overwhelmed by the feeling of love, but felt awkward and vulnerable voicing it. I became comfortable in my role of being the one in the relationship who didn’t say it.

Towards the end, Veronica would hold Eleanor next to her on the bed, telling her over and over again how much she loved her. She would look up and our eyes would meet and she would mouth the words. I would lean over, kissing her on the forehead, feeling the need and the desire to say the words, but my throat would constrict and they wouldn’t come out.

One afternoon, this exchange took place and I left the room, stepping into the hallway, and leaning against the wall trying to collect myself.

But then she was gone.

Veronica slipped away before I could tell her that I loved her one final time.