i was trying to avoid her eyes, because every time i looked into them i flooded with the same recurring shame, relived the crushing powerlessness of the moment, felt those memories of her eyes on me burn themselves awake after lightly slumbering in my mind. i would retie my shoe, fuss with a hangnail, or pretend to be otherwise simultaneously occupied with something trivial every time she tried to talk about it with me. i did, however, have to respond, and i always managed to evade honesty and thus attempt to dispel her concern by minimising everything.

it wasn't that bad, i would say. it could have been worse. i was actually pretty lucky. and of course, it's in the past. i'm okay now.

i was never sure how much of it she was buying, but whether i had allayed her concern or simply frustrated her into giving up, she ceased to broach the issue.

but one day,

"look at me."

so i looked at her shoulders, at the sleeves of her pretty blue sweater.

"no, look at me. look me in the eye."

i had never understood that saying. after all, didn't people have two eyes, not just "the eye"?

but my private fever thoughts could not buy me time, and my time was up. i was floored, cornered, trapped. her next words were as if to hopelessly confirm this.

"you can't hide forever."

with sweating palms and grating emotions, i lifted my head to meet her eyes.

somehow this was all it took for silence to crack wide open.

and even though i've died and had to start all over again, i'm old enough to know that it's now too broken to ever mend or be repaired.