Dragging Shadows: My Life in the Wake of Love

“I’m tired, Mike. I can’t keep doing this alone.”

My voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the stale air of our cramped apartment in Syracuse like a razor. Mike was hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table, the blue glow of the screen painting shadows under his eyes. He didn’t look up. He never looked up anymore.

I pressed my fingertips into the Formica counter, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like accusations. But everything felt like an accusation lately.

He finally spoke, voice flat. “Doing what alone, Susan?”

The kettle behind me shrieked, but I didn’t move to silence it. “Life. Us. All of it.”

He slammed his laptop shut, the sound jolting me. “You’re overreacting. We both work, we both pay bills. What more do you want?”

I wanted to scream that it wasn’t about the bills or the chores. It was the way I carried every plan, every hope, every conversation about our future—alone. I wanted a partner, not another person I had to drag behind me like a stubborn shadow.

I’m Susan Novak—yes, Novak, my parents’ stubborn Polish pride packed into one last name. I grew up in Binghamton, New York, in a house where the river always threatened to flood and my mother’s voice ricocheted off the wallpaper. My parents worked hard, my father at the auto shop, my mother at the hospital. They believed in effort, in sacrifice, in never complaining. I thought I did too, until Mike.

We’d been together nearly three years, and for the last twelve months, we’d shared this tiny apartment: mismatched mugs, stacks of thrifted books, the same old argument about whose turn it was to buy groceries. We both found jobs that spring—me at a nonprofit, him at a tech startup—and suddenly the world felt wide open. We talked about moving to the city, maybe even buying a house one day. But those conversations always ended with me doing the research, me drawing up budgets, me making the lists. Mike would nod and say, “Sounds good, babe,” and then retreat into his world of code and late-night pizza.

The first time I met his mom, Lydia, she pulled me into a hug so fierce I almost lost my balance. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, glancing at Mike like he was a storm she couldn’t steer. I understood her relief. Mike was bright, funny, but he drifted—never quite touching ground. His family said he was a dreamer. Mine called him a project.

It’s a cruel thing, loving someone’s potential more than their reality.

Last week, my sister called me on her way to pick up her kids. “Mom said you and Mike are looking at houses. Is he finally stepping up?”

I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to me. “You know Mike. He’s thinking about it.”

She clicked her tongue, the way she always did when she thought I was being too soft. “Susan, you don’t have to fix him.”

“I’m not,” I lied. “We’re fine.”

But we weren’t. Not really. I was tired of being the only one who planned, who worried, who made things happen. I was tired of dragging him forward, like a sled through heavy snow.

One night, after another argument about whose turn it was to call the landlord about a leaking faucet, I sat on the bathroom floor and wept into a towel. The tiles were cold against my legs, and I thought about my mother, scrubbing floors after twelve-hour shifts, never asking for help. I thought about the silence between Mike and me, how it grew in the spaces where laughter used to live.

The next morning, I found a note from Mike on the fridge. “Gone to work early. Sorry about last night. Let’s talk later?”

But later never came. Not really. We’d talk, and he’d promise to try harder, to do better. For a week, maybe two, he’d remember to pick up groceries or ask me about my day. Then he’d slip back into his old patterns, and I’d find myself alone again, making plans for two.

The final straw came on a stormy Thursday. My car broke down outside our apartment, rain pounding the windshield like a thousand tiny fists. I called Mike, hoping he’d answer, hoping he’d come outside and help me. He sent a text: “In a meeting. Can you call AAA?”

I sat there, soaked and shivering, and realized I was done. I didn’t want to be the girl who handled everything. I didn’t want to be my mother, holding up the sky while everyone else rested in the shade.

That night, I told Mike I needed space. He looked at me like I’d spoken in another language. “You’re giving up? Just like that?”

“No. I’m just tired of dragging us both. I need you to meet me halfway, or not at all.”

He didn’t fight. Maybe he was tired too. Maybe he’d always been tired.

I moved out two weeks later, into a tiny studio with peeling paint and a view of the parking lot. My mother called every night, her voice a mix of relief and worry. “You did the right thing, Susan. You can’t carry someone who won’t walk beside you.”

Some nights, I still miss Mike—the way he laughed at my terrible jokes, the warmth of his hand in mine. But I don’t miss the weight. I don’t miss the silence.

Sometimes I wonder: How many women like me are out there, dragging love behind them, mistaking burden for partnership? When do we finally decide to let go, and trust ourselves to walk alone?