It hasn’t been right for a while now. We both know it, we just refuse to accept it. So we tread on eggshells, both of us desperately trying to avoid the elephant in the room, paralysed with fear that one wrong move will make the other leave. An insincere compliment, a frigid embrace; keep the other happy, convince yourself you’re happy too. However bad the familiar is, it’s not as bad as the unknown.
At the same time, there is an element of security and comfort, something that may actually be genuine. Your presence puts me at ease, your touch seems to make me feel safer even though reaching for your hand has become little more than a reflex now. I silently thank you for merely being one of the few people who doesn’t make me pray for the end of humanity every time I see them, and I begin to wonder if this is what love really is.
Then I remember how things used to be. The fearless rush of the first few months, the apprehension and lust, the words we couldn’t quite say. The tears of anguish, the late night fighting, the words we later regretted. The crippling jealousy, the unspoken hatred, the words we apologised for later but secretly meant. I think about how readily I’ve succumbed to you, convince myself that it’s all your fault, and I try to muster enough emotion to hate you for it. But nothing comes. It would seem that with every emotion extinguished we are now left with the remains, remains that neither of us are ready to let go of in the hopes that someday we’ll feel something again.
Things aren’t the same. We grow number and more apathetic by the day. There’s no real excitement anymore, no real energy. Even the arguments are the same tired arguments, same difference of opinion, feeble attempts at reigniting passion that just isn’t there anymore. We’re just chipping away at each other, destroying ourselves out of fear. And it’s all because we’re so, so scared to be alone, that we’ve failed to notice how utterly uncomfortable we’ve become.