I wasn’t supposed to see him this way, and it angered me that I did.  I was trapped in empathy for him, drowning in emotions thick like quick sand, swallowing me slowly, faster as I thrashed in rebellion.  I was untouchable and uninterested in entire world of people who flowed around me, until he made me see him.  It was even more insulting that he did not want to be seen any more than I wanted to see him.

Leave me alone, his actions proclaimed when words failed him, and I would try, driven away by shame at feeling such need, and anger at myself as much as him.  If I had to feel this, why didn’t he?

It was only later that it occurred to me that just because he wasn’t twitching and screaming beside me, it did not mean that he was not as overwhelmed by this intimacy that neither of us wanted, and later still that I wondered over the grand plan that had decreed it be so.  What was to be gained from loving someone you could never bring yourself to touch, even though it was the only thing you could want whenever you saw them or heard their voice?

(c) 2017, J.A. Brown, Storyteller

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