Level of Concern

“Fucking high school bullshit.”

The words, spoken into the otherwise empty shell of my car, slipped unbidden from my mouth seconds after my wrist buzzed.

In the moment, the words were meant for you. An unusual departure from my usual thoughts on you, for an unusual week of the year.

Now, a day later, I realize they applied only to me. You are innocent, it was only my expectations that were at fault.

…

If only we could talk.

Just. Fucking. Talk.

So many of the difficulties, so much of the worry, the anxiety, the uncertainty… is because we don't talk. Not about this. Not about us.

Dropping little hints. Gazing longingly into each other's eyes. These are things that you and I, we've both gotten pretty good at. Breadcrumbs. Subtle messages. Trying to slide what little we can under that ever-present radar.

But, talking about it openly… a bridge too far, apparently for the both of us.

And it hurts. I don't believe for a moment that it hurts you any less.

We keep on hurting ourselves, to avoid hurting others. It's how we're wired, the both of us.

The only problem is, at some point along the way… we started hurting each other, too.

I don't want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you. But I know it happens, I know I have.

And I just don't see a way to stop it from happening, unless we talk.

We need to talk. Can we talk?

Please?