The years went somewhere. I don’t know where. I learned to leave before anyone could ask why my hands were shaking. You learned which joke meant I was not okay. I said, “Don’t look.” You looked. I said, “Go.” You stayed. I said, “Don’t touch me.” You stopped. Why did you stop? Every time you loved me, I called it pity. Every time you stayed, I waited for the price. I kept waiting for your kindness to turn into something I already knew. One night you cried with the faucet running, like water could keep a secret. By morning, your cup was beside mine. I thought I was fighting. You were just loving me. I thought I was surviving. You were building a home. And still— still— I watched the door. I kept waiting for you to become everybody else. You didn’t. Why are you still here? Why— after everything I— Damn it. I thought I had changed. I really did. But there you were. Again. At that door. Your back hurts. Don’t lie. Give me your glasses. Move over. Let me hear the house breathe. Let me stay awake this time. You stayed. You actually stayed. So sleep. I know where you keep the extra blanket now. I knew pain too well. You never became it. Come here.
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