Is kissing a smoker like licking an ashtray?
I read his diary. It was, at first, wholly uninteresting. Still, I found adrenaline prickling through me in the act of doing something I was very much not to be doing.
I never became very concerned, even reading things that most would find concerning. Not me, though, because unfortunately, I do not believe in that sort of thing. This is certainly the way it should be.
I suppose through it all, time moved pretty normally, but looking back, I feel I can't even close my eyes a fraction to blink before landing squarely where I am now.
I remember when he started seeing a therapist. After the third session or so, I finally confronted him. He said that the therapist said (that a book said) he was depressed. I was extremely adamant in saying no, you aren't depressed, and you should probably shut up about this before you start to pity yourself. I regretted that in a panic when, a month later, I had to call him from my car. He was no longer in his room, at home.
During that time, everyone (including me) cried a lot. We were basically in a constant state of "shiver." There were a lot of frantic regrets, as though regretting it would change it. I guess in a way it does.
You're back now, you've been back, and things are pretty different, mostly in ways I can't really describe. However, I do know that you continue to look at me with all the blame in the world. I'd be lying if I said you're correct, or that I was ever in the wrong.
I live through it all. It feels like tangential smoking.
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