Year One
Him:
When her voice rises, something in me goes underground. I don’t mean to leave—I’m still sitting here, aren’t I? But inside, I’m walking away from something that feels like fire. My father taught me this: when the heat comes, you become stone. Stone doesn’t burn. I’m protecting us both, can’t she see that? If I stay quiet, the storm will pass. It always does.
Her:
His eyes go flat mid-sentence, like someone turned off a light inside him. I’m still talking but he’s gone—vanished into some room I can’t enter. The panic is immediate, cellular. Everyone leaves eventually; I’ve always known this. So I speak louder, reach harder, try to pull him back before he disappears completely. If I can just make him feel what I’m feeling, he’ll stay. He has to stay.