“Can we talk?”

The words reach my eyes hours too late. I had been exploring the wilderness, wondering if the butterflies ever visited your stomach and whether I should call you “honey” too. (Love, baby, darling, dearest … none of them are enough. You are everything.) That was never the purpose of that adventure, but my attention kept skipping from one thing to another like a fly exploring buffet tables, except when it landed on you.

What did you wish to talk about, my beloved? I’m sorry for not having seen it sooner. Did you think I was avoiding you? ignoring you like I did the first time? What was bothering you? Were you worried about something?

Regretfully, I might never know. Because when I finally replied, you said you already “solved” it, which means there was a problem, and I wasn’t around to address it with you. (What a partner, huh? I feel like a screen door on a submarine. I’m sorry, my beloved. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …)

(Are you hiding things from me?)

I hope you talked to someone. I’d rather you share your anxieties with another person than keep it all to yourself and let it consume you. It just better be someone trustworthy (Do you not trust me?), someone who understands (Won't you at least give me a chance to understand?).

"I solved it" is all I got from you, and now, you feel like a different person. I feel a shift like tectonic plates moving not enough to shake the earth but enough to shake my core. (I wish I could talk to someone. But this is your world, and I'm just living in it. And for most of my existence, I felt like I was not living that much.)

Are you alright, hon?

Are we alright?