I think… Maybe… But I could be wrong…
that in the cold of regret, over what I do not know, in the crystallized silence that plagues the worrier, she found a calm and a peace she could not explain. Subdued by the gently vibrating turmoil that slowly shatters her resolve not close in on herself, she found warmth in her personal hell. I imagine I can feel her motions, her slow pulse as the last of her angst slips from her and the acceptance of her station creeps in in its place, as she listens to the slow cadence of a heart cooling, giving up its vain hopes. It has been a long time since we last talked and I have only imagined how she is. She cocooned herself, as she said she often does, and I am torn between my impulses to slash at the silk and pull her out and letting her be until she comes out at her own time.
I miss her terribly, and even in admitting that to myself I fear that we may never get back what we started to have. I do not know where to start reaching out, and whether if I do I will make any headway. None of us have time, so I cannot fall back on youth, mine and hers. To let it be or to chase? The young man’s eternal question. It is arrogant to put myself at some centre of all this, on a righteous pedestal, as if I am somehow responsible for her retreat, that I have something to do with the way she is. I might be or I might not be and I might never know. I struggle to find a midway, a compromise between what is genuinely because of me and what is her choice. I suspect that with this too, I might not find. How does one prove the nonexistence of one’s fault?
I comfort myself with the knowledge that she is alive, by catching glimpses of her vivacity on twitter or her darkness in her intermittent writing, a darkness I may know somewhat intimately, and not hearing that anything bad has happened to her, not seeing her obituary on the rare occasions I pick up a newspaper. This will do for now, as I rationalize my trepidation by always having something to do, tasks at work, books to read, other people to see. This way, when the gossamer that may still join us finally dissolves, I can always say… What? Say what? What can one say? Think, yes. I can think that I could not have done better.