I’m all parts that don’t fit together anymore.
• • •
“I did what I had to do,” I say. “To get through it.”
“Ro —”
“You weren’t there.” Flat. Not angry. Just true. Just facts stated without emotion.
“You don’t know what that year was like. You never explained anything. You just left and blocked me. And I had to figure out how to keep existing with no explanation and no —”
“I know.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t just say I know like that makes it —”
“I did it for my dad.”
Silence.
He says it quietly.
Not looking at me.
Jaw tight.
Like it slipped out and he immediately regrets it.
• • •
“What does that mean?”
Nothing.
The door behind his eyes swings shut.
Just like that.
I watch it happen and I don’t know whether to push or let it go.
• • •
I let it go.
Because some part of me knows — has always known —
that whatever is in there isn’t something he can say yet.
Maybe not ever.
• • •
“You think I’m okay?” he says finally.
Still not looking at me.
“You think I’m happy? I pass this house every single day. Every single day for two years I’ve walked past this house and —”
He stops.
