We don't speak about it.
We don't talk about the years we've worked towards this small bit of selfish contentment. We don't talk about how hard it's been for me to watch him suffer in there. We don't talk about what it was like for him to watch me live my own life out here.
My coworkers don't bother to ask about Tohru. They don't so much as acknowledge the fact that he's been living with me for a time. My own daughter barely remembers to let us know she still counts this her home. She's out most nights with all of her old friends while the two of us lick our wounds in a peaceful, purposefully neglectful way.
No one but Tohru questions my faithfulness to him. Everyone but him questions his sincerity towards me.
In public we are silent. In private we make small talk, or engage in a discussion of the news or my work.
We don't dare mention that most nights finds one of us quietly crying before we start messing around to forget—To push it all down.
Nothing is said of the fact that Tohru can't find a job. He's been looking since he was notified of his release, but is still facing rejection.
Our relationship is left unaddressed. As if we find solace in the fact that we aren't solidifying our commitment. As if saying anything too meaningful aloud could tear to shreds all that we've worked for. As if to make clear what we are to each other could destroy the careful equilibrium we've been able to establish.
As if everything is too precarious. As if this precious thing will break if brought into the light.
As if staying silent will safeguard what little happiness we've finally found. As if we know that we're too fragile to face the facts. As if everything is fine as long as we keep up the act.
As if—
This is real love.
The most tangible thing we can grab hold of. The smallest slice of reality we can stand.
As if this is what we wanted for each other and for ourselves.
