The Destination
She had known it was him as soon as she heard the knock. Had known too, that it was his want and need that had driven him to this place, yet again. Countess times before he had come to her with his spirit bruised and his guilt heavy, searching for answers to make sense of the whole sorry situation. She was never able to comfort him with a suitable answer, never able to completely chase away the shadow that clung to him after a bad visit. She knew him well enough to slap a bandaid dressing on his wounds and send him away all too soon, recuperating, but never recovered.
Once, she'd tried to soothe away the hurt by the simple act of taking his hand. She'd reached out impulsively, just wanting to let him know that he wasn't alone and not knowing any other way to break through. He'd looked into her eyes and pulled away from her as if struck, a sudden expression of distrust crossing his face, and she'd learnt not to do that again. After that there were only inadequate words and a barrier of soft cushions between them. He had his side of the couch, she had hers and there were no bridges.
But even after the harshness of that unintended and immediately regretted rejection, she knew that he wanted something more from her. Knew too, that after her last effort was spurned it would take something monumental for him to lay himself open and ask. And that she could never give that much of herself until he did.
She opened the door and moved aside as he entered wordlessly, refusing to look at her just yet. He left a trail of puddles in his wake as he shuffled to his customary place on her couch and sat, bone weary and still. It was unnatural to see him so motionless when he was usually so animated. She didn't like it, but she followed him to the couch and they sat in silence. This was how it began. This weighted silence, sometimes long, sometimes mercifully short, but always essential, used to reign in his emotions. When a tenuous hold was achieved, then, and only then, would he look at her.
She waited, and sure enough he eventually stopped staring at his hands and turned his focus to her. She knew him well enough to decipher the muted appeal in his eyes, well enough to know that her pity wasn't welcome. So she tried to hide it, but the truth was still there. And because she wasn't quick enough, he saw. One word. Barely audible, it was not a request yet not quite a command either.
Don't.
A protest died on her lips, because he would know she was lying. She couldn't help feeling as she did. Not for the reasons he thought though, but for reasons he probably wouldn't believe anyway. Because she cared about him. Because she hated seeing him like he was, knowing what she knew and what he had endured. Because he kept enduring, alone. Always alone. So she choked back her denial and instead countered with a question of her own. And for once, he was the one without answers.
Why not?
She had known it was him as soon as she heard the knock. Had known too, that it was his want and need that had driven him to this place, yet again. Countess times before he had come to her with his spirit bruised and his guilt heavy, searching for answers to make sense of the whole sorry situation. She was never able to comfort him with a suitable answer, never able to completely chase away the shadow that clung to him after a bad visit. She knew him well enough to slap a bandaid dressing on his wounds and send him away all too soon, recuperating, but never recovered.
Once, she'd tried to soothe away the hurt by the simple act of taking his hand. She'd reached out impulsively, just wanting to let him know that he wasn't alone and not knowing any other way to break through. He'd looked into her eyes and pulled away from her as if struck, a sudden expression of distrust crossing his face, and she'd learnt not to do that again. After that there were only inadequate words and a barrier of soft cushions between them. He had his side of the couch, she had hers and there were no bridges.
But even after the harshness of that unintended and immediately regretted rejection, she knew that he wanted something more from her. Knew too, that after her last effort was spurned it would take something monumental for him to lay himself open and ask. And that she could never give that much of herself until he did.
She opened the door and moved aside as he entered wordlessly, refusing to look at her just yet. He left a trail of puddles in his wake as he shuffled to his customary place on her couch and sat, bone weary and still. It was unnatural to see him so motionless when he was usually so animated. She didn't like it, but she followed him to the couch and they sat in silence. This was how it began. This weighted silence, sometimes long, sometimes mercifully short, but always essential, used to reign in his emotions. When a tenuous hold was achieved, then, and only then, would he look at her.
She waited, and sure enough he eventually stopped staring at his hands and turned his focus to her. She knew him well enough to decipher the muted appeal in his eyes, well enough to know that her pity wasn't welcome. So she tried to hide it, but the truth was still there. And because she wasn't quick enough, he saw. One word. Barely audible, it was not a request yet not quite a command either.
Don't.
A protest died on her lips, because he would know she was lying. She couldn't help feeling as she did. Not for the reasons he thought though, but for reasons he probably wouldn't believe anyway. Because she cared about him. Because she hated seeing him like he was, knowing what she knew and what he had endured. Because he kept enduring, alone. Always alone. So she choked back her denial and instead countered with a question of her own. And for once, he was the one without answers.
Why not?