"the worst part was that you gave up on me," he says.

"no, i didnt't," she says.

they walk back to the couch. he doesn't look at her.

"you left me," he says.

"i needed to," she says.

in the time between then and now he hasn't told that to anyone. he hasn't said that. he hasn't admitted that her giving up was what led him south.

people assumed it was that she broke up with him. that was partly true, yes. people assumed that he went crazy, in a mild depression. yes.

but mainly he had to get away from her giving up on him.

he would wake up, those first few months, sweating, sick to the stomach, remembering the way she said, three months into their relationship, "i won't give up on you, i promise."

it had eased something in him.

and then she broke it.

"i just couldn't hurt you anymore," she says.

"you weren't hurting me," he says.

"i couldn't be with you. that hurt you, right?" she asks.

"not as much as you leaving," he says.

and they sit in the dark, on her couch, with their legs touching. he has carried this weight around so long that he doesn't realize it is there, most of the time. he knows he steps slower and thinks slower and feels slower, but it is not anything he realizes anymore.

it has become a part of him.

no one else has seen it. they think he has just, finally, matured, grown up, eased into himself.