Real eyes realize real lies
I remember the day it all went wrong.
And looking back, I struggle to see, how you can say that you loved me, yet you didn't see I was breaking inside, hurting from the words you'd said, the lies you'd told me in those moments of distraction when you forgot that I could tell, forgot that I always knew, forgot that I suffered along with you, silent in support and comfort by your side as I watched you fall apart in his arms.
You stand before me now, ask 'Where did I go wrong?', and I don't know what to say.
Because you blame yourself.
I hate that you think that you're at fault, even though I know that you are. But with the words falling from your lips and the self-decrepidation that I feel radiating from you in dark, thick waves, I can't help but feel sorry for you.
Because once upon a time, you'd lost a son, and while I'd grieved for him with and alongside you, my own feelings almost as strong as your own. The guilt over the fact that I'd been hurt, jealous, envious of the fact that you'd sought out and surrounded yourself with the people whose grief over his death had been stronger than my own still lingers, and suddenly grows in strength.
But still, I find myself hating that I'd trusted you with my everything, and instead of allowing me to remain by your side in times of hardship, you'd thrown me - thrown us - away at the first sign of emotional upheaval. I hate that you felt the need to lie to me, to try and 'spare my feelings' about the fact that you'd rather grieve with someone other than me. I could've accepted that, lived with it, if you'd just said.
"I'm sorry," I say, "but if you can't even answer that yourself, then I don't think I can help you."
And I turn, walk away. I feel the spark of pain as it cracks your heart as I leave you standing alone in the corridor behind me, but I force myself on until I can see you no more when I glance back over my shoulder. The phantom touch of your hand as it had closed around my wrist, forcing to spin back around to face you, still lingers against my skin as my back collides with the bulkhead and I sink to the floor. A shuddering sigh racks my body, my shoulders slumping as I pull my legs to my chest and press my forehead to my knees.
I can feel you moving away, drifting quietly back to your quarters as the sorrow over 'losing' me quickly quells the desire to 'win me back'. The hopelessness settles over your shoulders, and as it does the same for me, I wonder, was I right? to take away what you probably saw as your last chance to reconnect with me, for us to return to what we were before?
A hand settles on my arm, I lift my head. Data is crouched by my side, his head cocked in what for him is concern. "Counsellor," he asks, "are you alright?"
I manage a small nod for him, before my head falls back against the bulkhead. "I'm fine," you lie. "I just felt a little dizzy, is all."
He seems to study me for a moment. "Do you need to see a doctor?"
I shake my head. "No, Data, it's passed now. Everything's fine."
He smiles, helps me to my feet and escorts me to my quarters. He bids me well and goodbye, but as I step far enough inside so that the doors can close, all I can think is,
Everything is not fine.
