The Way it Didn't Happen

Your lips turned blue, but you wouldn't take the blanket. Your hands trembled, your whole body shook. You were too distracted to care. I couldn't convince you to calm down and tell me what was so wrong. Your eyes looked blank. You simply stood in my door way and stared at the floor. Your clothes were dripping and I worried you would be sick if I couldn't convince you to make some forward motion. It wasn't like you to come over without the intention of kissing me.

Finally I took your hand and gently pulled, my voice trembling as I begged you please. Finally you looked in my direction, without every really looking at me, and came forward. I wrapped you in a blanket and gently touched your face, searching for some sign of what was wrong. I sat you on the bed, and went to find dry clothes. When I came back you sat your head in your hands, silently sobbing. I ran my fingers through your hair, and when you looked up I handed you some clothes you had left behind the last time you spent the night. Still unable to meet my gaze, you nodded and took them from me. I sat on the bed and watched you shiver as you changed. Your pain cut through me, I gestured for you to come lie down next to me. As you came I could see you were starting to come out of your distraction. With your head in my lap, and my hand in your hair I finally asked you what was wrong. A deep uneasy breath left you. You said very very quietly that your grandfather had died, and he was the only one to ever believe in you. As I hugged you, and kissed every inch of skin I could reach I told you you were wrong. That no matter what I would always believe in you. I held you as you cried yourself to sleep.