He is out there. Someone who really loved me back then. And who has been kind enough not to say that he loves me now that we have reconnected. He's not saying it because it is complicated, and the last thing he wants to do is make things more complicated. That is how he chooses to show his love.
But his voice. Oh his voice is just the same as it was 15 years ago. Strong and smooth, and warm. It makes me want to climb through the phone and into his deep blue eyes. Oceans of life in there. The blue eyes over here are the steely sort. Icy. There may be depth somewhere behind them, but you'd have to break through impenetrable walls to get there. Not that I haven't tried. He only talks to me or touches me when he knows its make or break. When he knows I'm about to walk out the door to freedom or to poison myself in my garage with the car running.
But on the other end of the line, there is no shortage of words and warmth and listening. And in the mornings I am full of hope that someday I will be able to have that in my life. Have him back in my life. But by the afternoon I begin to doubt I ever will. I know this every morning, and you'd think I'd shut down that shimmer of hope to avoid the crash later on, but I won't do it. That glimmer of hope is more than I've had in a long time.