He had these moments. (and this is probably what I liked most about him) He had these moments when he was weak, vulnerable, shaky, etc. Moments where his eyes would tell more than he had intended. When his hands would tremble as they ran along my hips. And he had to be oblivious to it. If he knew what he was doing, he would cover it up. He was tough. And this wasn't fake, his toughness. It was real. He was honestly a strong person. He had this shell that he had been growing since he was younger. This shell that protected him, that allowed him to do things without being hurt. Or, maybe the shell wasn't real.

Regardless, after a while, his shell thins to just an extra layer. A sweater to keep him warm, something he can take off, if he wants. These are the moments when he (unknowingly?) lets his guard down. A prime example of this is the time I found him in the bathroom…Wait, this wasn't at all subtle or unknowing. He was fully aware, he had to be. I found him in the bathroom, possibly drunk, but sobbing. Literally, sobbing with his head leaning against the toilet. He had his hands pressed against his eyes, as if they would stop it from happening. He was so close to convulsing, I was almost frightened. Almost afraid to go near him. Like he was a wild animal and I needed to approach him slowly to make sure he wouldn't bite or run away. He didn't do either. I held him and he cried. He didn't tell me what it was about. I didn't question him. It didn't seem like it was my place. Not at the time, at least.

He was volatile, and I liked it. I liked coming home, not knowing if he would still love me or not. It made my stomach twist into knots every time I walked up those stairs, every time I put the key in that lock. I liked that I was never sure if he wanted me to kiss him. (I usually did either way.) The not knowing made it interesting. For awhile.

I liked that he had two sides.

I couldn't sleep when the moon was shining through our window. It was too much light. Too much light that I couldn't do a thing about. It came right through the curtains. Sometimes I would wake him up. (Not sure if he would be happy about it or not.) I would say, "Jess. Jess." Say it until he answered me with a groan. "Wake up." I would say, nudging him with my shoulder. He would make some unintelligible noise before saying, "What?" (This meant he was happy about it. Or, not unhappy.) Suddenly, I would feel ashamed, like a child who wakes their parent up after a bad dream. "It's the moon." He knew what I meant. He knew I hated it. And he would bring me to his chest with his hands pressing against my bare back. I would bury my face in him, blocking out the moon's awful glow. And, in a barely audible whisper, he would say, "Stay." And there was such desperation in his voice, as though he were really afraid I would leave. As though, he actually thought I could survive away from him. In response, I would press my lips to his chest where my face was buried and bring myself closer.

And his shell was lying on the floor next to the bed.

His other side, the side with the shell, began to show up more often. It started to grow back, thicker than ever. I wasn't sure what started this, what caused him to recoil. But, it was happening. I came home and he was locked up in the bedroom, reading or writing. Dinner was sitting out, cold and waiting for me. I knocked on the bedroom door and he didn't say a word. I said, "Jess, are you in there?" And still, nothing. "Jess." And I was shaking all over. Afraid. "Jess, how can I know that you didn't leave? I need to know you're still there." He opened the door, his hair disheveled (and it reminded me of when he was younger), his clothes wrinkled. As if he'd been asleep. "I'm here, okay?" His face told me nothing, his eyes turned dark. "Okay." And I kissed him because I always do when I get home. But, he was cold and unresponsive. "Okay." I said again, retreating back into the kitchen as he closed the bedroom door again. I stood for a second and listened to the click of the lock.

I cried not because of his actions or his words. I cried because I didn't know. Because uncertainty was tearing through my soul again, ripping at my heart, my mind. Because it fucking hurt. In the most literal way, it hurt. I felt it. A dull ache pulsing through my body. I wanted to tell him that sometimes I can't breathe. I wanted to tell him that we're opposites. When he's weak, I'm strong. When he's strong (or his own definition of the word), I'm weak.

He emerged from the bedroom after days and days of nothingness. He was showered, dressed, fresh. Pristine. But, his face. His face remained the same as it had been days ago. I didn't say a word to him, just observed him, waiting. And then. He was smiling and I felt it pull at me. He came to me with his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me until we were pressed against each other. And he said, "You're beautiful." I accepted this, not wanting him to leave me again. He was kissing my neck with small, soft kisses until he hit my collar bone. And I whispered softly, delicately, "Stay."

Will we both be happy
To stand alone?
I can't see forever
Where will I go?
…
So we stay together
Despite our rows.
And we're holding back so
We won't explode.

(lyrics: Measure 3 by Matt Pond PA)