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"You can't leave, you can't."

I spoke into the darkness. He turned, his face in shadows, his body backlit by the streetlight that filtered through the slats in the blind on my bedroom window. I could see the silhouette of a bag over his shoulder, and his copy of the OED that I'd given him when it all started.

"Why?" He spoke with subtle kindness, which was not what I was expecting, considering our recent rows. I felt my breath catch as tears approached, but there was no way I was going to let him see that: it would weaken my position.

"Because you're a part of me, as I'm a part of you." I tried for triumphant, but knew I'd failed.

"Oh, Nick. I only wish it was so." With a sigh, he put the bag on the floor and sat down in the corner chair, the one next to the dresser. "We change ... we all change." He sounded sad now, which was just as well, as I felt I was about to start wailing. "It's time; you can't deny it, even if you might want to."

"Shit! It's not fair; it's just not fucking fair." The tears were pouring down my cheeks, and though I knew he couldn't see them, knowing him as I did, he would sense them in my tone. I reached out, took a tissue off the night table, and blew my nose. "Want one?" I asked. He chuckled.

"I finished crying an age ago, when I first ... when I realised."

"So that's why you went?"

"Uh huh, though I honestly didn't want to."

"So why? We could have … should have talked. It would have helped me too." He stirred in the chair, then stuck his legs out, and crossed his ankles.

"Because you'd changed, and we were growing apart." He paused and I could tell, as I always could, that he wanted to say something more. He'd never been reticent in the past, and it puzzled me.

"What?"

"Huh," he said, sounding amused, "I'll tell you, just don't go getting a swollen head."

"Swollen head?"

"Yeah, well, I'm proud of you."

"Ah! swollen head - hardly." Now it was my turn to be amused. "You're leaving me the first time you tell me you're proud. Where's the sense in that?"

"I'm proud of you … for deciding to be yourself - to be who you really are."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"So…." I paused, confused. It was all so illogical, and I needed to understand. "I decide to come out, and you leave … I don't understand. I'm you, you're me, we love each other, we can't not, yet now you're leaving?" It was dawning on me that whatever I said, he was going, and that acceptance was a bitch.

"As I just said, we all change and I…." He stopped, and I heard footsteps approaching outside. "He's here."

"Huh?"

"It was always finite … it always is," he said, under his breath; then got up, stretched in his unique languid fashion - that always made me smile, slung the bag over his shoulder, and came over and kissed me chastely on the forehead. Walking to the door, he paused, his hand on the doorknob, and turned to me, smiling.

"Bye bye, Nick. It was fun, it was real fun." I could see a lone tear running down his face as he blinked, opened the door and left, closing it behind him. I shut my eyes, and was wondering what the hell I was going to do, when there was a polite knock.

"Come in," I muttered, looking up.

The door opened, and he walked back in.

"Poor joke, mate," I said, grabbing another tissue, and blowing my nose for the second time in as many minutes. "So what did it prove?"

"Huh? Pardon me?" His voice was subtly different, and as I looked at him, I realized that like me, he was the same, yet not the same.

"Muse?"

"Yes, Nick, of course. Who else would I be?"

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