The Getaway Glitch

We thought we’d be fine. Just needed a change of scenery. So we took the fracture on holiday.

How It Started

We’d just survived a trust fracture. The kind that nearly ends things before they begin. And instead of slowing down, we went on a trip. A getaway. With her friends.

It should’ve felt like a soft reset: new city, new faces, shared plans. I like meeting new people, it's part of what I was becoming in the past years. This time it felt different though. I was walking into a room with people who knew her. I didn’t know what version of her they knew. Or what version of me she had told them about.

We were still raw. The trust break was recent. And it wasn’t minor. It was the kind of thing that could’ve been avoided with one honest conversation. Instead, there was silence. There was omission. And when I finally reacted, I was told, “You should manage your emotions better.” That line stayed with me. Long after the argument. Long after the hug.

The Shift

We went anyway. I wanted to make it work. But something didn’t come with us. The flow. The ease. The in-jokes. The us. The conversations grew quieter, colder. She noticed.

“It’s like we’ve been together for years already,” she said one night. “It’s starting to feel like we have nothing to talk about.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Not in someone else’s home. Not surrounded by strangers I was trying to impress.

Inside, I was thinking: Why am I even here? Why did you bring me, if you don’t trust me enough to talk to me like I’m your partner?

She was distant too. So I mirrored it. I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel her reach back. But the words we needed never came.

We drank. It was the holidays. She sat across the table, smiling. But all I could feel was distance. Something in me snapped. Quietly.

“I don’t feel good. I want to leave,” I thought to myself. But I wasn’t there alone. I would ruin this completely for her.

The Fallout

She noticed something in my face. Walked over. Sat across from me. Nodded slowly. I didn’t respond with warmth. I couldn’t. She noticed, stood up and announced to the host:

“I’m leaving.”

Just like that. No invitation. No shared exit. Just: she’s leaving.

I sat there stunned for a moment, unsure what part of the story I was in anymore.

We left the room quickly, but the conversation exploded on the way out. Sharp words. Frustration. Mistranslations. She wanted to fix it. I couldn’t speak. Then I spoke too loudly. I was too full of the thing I hadn’t been able to say all trip:

You’re right next to me, but it feels like we are strangers.

We left. Few words were said to the people staying at the party. She wanted to be alone together. On any other night this would be the invitation I wanted. We created a moment. A small one. Tried to fix it. I don’t remember if it repaired anything. But she tried. More than me.

The next morning, we drove home in silence. Long, heavy silence. I was driving, occupied by my thoughts, wondering how two people could sit inches apart and still miss each other so badly.

Note to Self

When the person you love becomes a stranger you’re still trying to impress, stop. Explosions don’t happen in a vacuum. They happen when clarity is withheld and you're still performing a version of intimacy to protect a peace that no longer exists. Trying to stay loyal to someone who won’t meet you in truth will always cost more than walking away. Next time, speak earlier. Walk slower. Don’t protect their comfort at the expense of your own clarity. You don’t need to perform emotional fluency to earn your place.