I called "S" on Wednesday. It has been two months since we spoke. Three months since I saw him last. The sound of his voice made my heart race as it has every time since I first saw him. There is profound relief to know that he exists, a deep ache that is soothed, even in the knowledge that we will never be. He is my match in every way. It is a rarity.
In August, I ended things completely, and have since lived in a place of perpetual grief. I never understood why he stopped everything; why he couldn't tell me. I wondered if there was ever anything I could have done to have made things different. But this isn't a rescue mission; it is recovery/salvage only.
"There is something I need to discuss with you," I told him. "But not over the phone". He agreed to meet next weekend. He writes to me: "I can handle a careful approach, but not more than that".
I told "D" that I was going. He deserves to know. He has been my sentinel against the night; the only person I confessed to about my dark impulse. He waited for me in the shadows the beach in Cape Verde, watching as I ran along the shore or swam too far into the breakers.
"I understand", he said. "But you have to promise me that you will come back alive. Say it."
I felt irrational anger at this request, trapped by his insistence. He deserves this from me and I said it, but I feel irritated when I think about it now, dark impulse or no. I knocked his door early this morning, and laid down beside him, grateful that he has seen the darkness I have never shown another soul. I wonder if the promise is enough.
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