It’s always greener on the other side of the fence because you never see the little termites destroying the decaying wood or the mass hornets’ nest right above the hammock.
There is a heavy weight a heart carries in being the one to leave. There’s a great responsibility and duty to oneself to speak your own truth. Caring for someone means walking away when you can’t give them what they need or want from you. It’s not so easy on this side when you wake up with giant hornets looming over you and look across the fence and think: well sure those weeds are taking over the lawn a little but at least they don’t have this. Yet you know the resident who lives on the other side of the fence would love nothing more than to face the dangerous hornets head on just for a chance to lay in your hammock alongside you. But you’ve only got room for one now, don’t you?
You just got tired of wondering if there’s enough bug spray to last you both, or if you should be worried that he wants to sleep when you feel like rocking the hammock back and forth like a child on a swing. Or worse, packing it up and leaving because the world needs one more explorer and one less day dreamer swinging on a hammock. In full disclosure you mention the termites’ ability to eat through the decay of your heart where there used to be room for two and now there’s only one chamber left.
You worry because you only brought your backpack with enough supplies for one and the nights can be long and cold and you’ll only resent having to share. You worry because you never wanted to hurt anyone and suddenly every action feels as though it’s weighed against two hearts, one of which not your own.
You leave. You always leave armed with your backpack and your one-chamber heart still pumping fast and warm. You bid goodbye to the hornets, hammock and fences because you’ve been practicing your goodbyes and you’ve gotten quite good at them.