When Someone Walks Away in the Middle of the Journey

One minute you are happily going somewhere with a man who seems perfectly interested in the journey, and the next he pulls over, gets out of the car and disappears behind a hedge.

That’s it.

No warning, no charming little speech about how lovely the journey has been, not even the courtesy of pointing vaguely toward the nearest gas station.

You are still sitting there with your sunglasses on, half a bottle of water in the cup holder and plans for somewhere you now appear to be visiting alone.

This is what makes being suddenly cut off so strange. The hurt comes quickly, but the confusion is almost faster.

Five minutes ago this man was discussing where you were going next. Now you are sitting alone in the car.

Naturally, you do not immediately think, Well, that was extremely rude.

That would be far too efficient.

Instead, you unfold the map.

Surely We Took a Wrong Turn Somewhere

Your mind wants to know exactly where the journey changed.

Was it that conversation? Did you say too much? Not enough? Was there some invisible exit sign you missed because you were enjoying yourself like an amateur?

Soon you are mentally redriving the entire route.

Here we were laughing. Here he held my hand. Here he said he wanted to see me again. Here we had pasta and nobody behaved like a man preparing to disappear into shrubbery.

Nothing.

So you go back over it once more because surely the answer must be somewhere between the pasta and the hand-holding.

Meanwhile, one very simple fact is sitting beside you wearing a seat belt:

he left.

Of course, your mind dislikes this answer because it has no elegance. You want a proper explanation, preferably one that makes the whole thing fall neatly into place. Better yet, you would like him to come charging back to the roadside, announce that he has made a spectacular mistake and ask whether the trip can please continue immediately.

Instead, nothing.

Which is particularly strange coming from a man who, not long ago, seemed very interested in where the two of you were going.

Then You Become His Travel Agent

When he does not provide an explanation, imagination kindly begins arranging one on his behalf.

Maybe he panicked. Maybe things became too real. Maybe he has a lot going on. Maybe his past suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror wearing perfume.

Maybe he is overwhelmed, scared, confused, not ready, secretly still attached to someone else or standing somewhere looking thoughtfully into the distance because love has all become terribly complicated for him.

By the time you are finished, his disappearance has a complete itinerary.

He himself has contributed nothing.

This is one of the stranger things we do when someone cuts us off: we become wonderfully generous with explanations they never bothered to give.

“He probably had his reasons.”

I am sure he did.

People usually do. So does someone who eats the last pastry and puts the empty box back in the cupboard. Reasons are everywhere.

The question is not whether he had reasons. The question is how you ended up sitting by the road doing all the explaining for a man who is not even there.

And because your feelings did not disappear when he did, part of you begins treating the stop as temporary.

Maybe he will come back.

Maybe he just needs time.

Maybe he urgently needed to pee, had no time to explain himself and will reappear from behind the hedge in five minutes as though this has all been perfectly normal.

Possibly.

But while you are considering all this, the car remains exactly where he left it.

Then You Notice You Are Still Parked

This is the part that usually takes longer: realizing that he left, but you are the one still sitting there.

Somehow his decision to walk away can make the whole journey feel cancelled. You keep looking in the direction he went, waiting for an explanation, a return, a final conversation or at least some sign that the man has not been swallowed by a very selective forest.

But the road is still there.

So is the car.

And eventually it occurs to you that you could move over to the driver’s seat.

This does not mean you suddenly stop caring. You may still want to know what happened, and you may still be furious that somebody could be warm, engaged and making plans one minute, then simply step out without explaining why the next.

But after a while, knowing exactly what was going through his head matters less than the fact that, when things became difficult, he chose the hedge over a conversation.

That is information too.

You do not need to turn him into a villain. You simply stop pretending the way he left means nothing. And once you see that clearly, there is less reason to keep staring at the bushes as though they might eventually give him back with answers.

Eventually, you look away.

You move your bag, adjust the mirror, take the snacks, obviously, and slide into the driver’s seat.

He may have decided not to keep going with you.

Fine.

He can have the hedge. You have the car, the snacks and, rather conveniently, the driver’s seat.

Turns out, the trip did not end. He just got out.