It’s possible that every decision I have made has been wrong. That the things I have said to him, that you the readers don’t know about, that they contributed to this isolation. The more honest I tried to be, the more open to the process, the more open to him, perhaps this closed him down more. Men don’t want honest. Men don’t want open. Men want to fuck and eat and not think about whether you are going to worry if they haven’t spoken to you in 3 days because you have some PTSD after having had several friends in your life die tragically and then, irrationally, you worry the worst when people are unreachable, because you realize that the world is better with them in it. Because suddenly you have found someone who you can’t imagine what the world would be like without them or their unique views or sense of humor… or that thing they do with their nose. You just know that when it isn’t so hard, it feels like home, and not just any home, but a mid-century modern cube home with ceiling to floor windows, perfect light, and a kitchen you can really move in and then you realize that you’ve been homeless for so long. That makes the hard stuff… not justifiable, but easier to justify or consider or give the benefit of the doubt about. That sense of home, makes the possibility of regret that could come from walking away from it all, that sense makes it impossible to walk away if there is even a miniscule chance. ANY chance.
Maybe I am wrong. BUT, maybe I just need to have his face in my hands and look into his eyes and ask him if I am, before I throw in the towel. Before I suddenly make myself homeless.