His face looked suddenly swollen, as though unshed tears, finding no outlet through his eyes, flowed beneath his skin wherever it found space. He would not look at me, but away, and yet I knew he was not seeing what he looked at. His blue eyes had darkened, and something had receded into his deepest place, so that when he looked at me finally, I saw the unspoken, unreleased emotion at his center. I felt as though a sabre had passed through me as through softened butter, at his look. There was nothing I could do, then or ever. I might never know that unspoken, unreleased story, and a part of me was relieved, for I felt its terror course through me as he looked at me. How had he stayed alive and sane? The answer was there, in that deep core where he abided in this moment, a courage that was itself so complete a part of who he was that he scarce noticed it. Then, I knew. I knew that no matter what that story was, it did not define him, but he could not forget it, in moments like this one.
His eyelids dropped, a tiny movement that showed me he saw that I knew where the limits lay and I would not disturb them. That I was not then, or ever, going to "fix" him or pursue him into his deepest place. That I would wait for, but never expect, his invitation to follow him there. He adjusted his shoulders then, the way he always did when he began to relax.
I needed to be alone. I felt as though I had emotional jet lag from that supersonic view into the unknown behind his eyes. I wanted to curl into myself and go comatose, so that when I landed I would not feel the bump or feel the nausea of the descent. I turned away and walked to the spring. On my knees, I splashed the icy water over my face and neck, needing the sting of the wet and the cold to ground me in my being. When I turned to look at him, he was gone. I had not heard him leave, but was not surprised. I already thought he was a ghost in a body.