Things I cannot tell you It is always the drive home that unsettles me. I see too many endings before they happen. Headlights colliding. A turn taken too fast. The phone in my hand ringing and ringing and no one answering. I tell myself not to call, not to disturb you, but the silence between us grows heavier than the sound of the line connecting. When you answer, your voice is warm, a little tired. You ask if I am okay. I say yes, though the truth is I was already rehearsing the silence of your absence. Already thinking of the rooms I would have to walk through without you. I listen to the ordinary things you tell me. What you ate. The way the city looked on your walk to the car. How tired you feel. I hold on to every word as if it is proof of your existence. I need proof. I need to know you are still in this world. By the time you are almost home, my body softens, but the fear never truly leaves. I never say this out loud. I never tell you that if you left me in this way, I would not survive it. That the thought of your absence is already unbearable, even in imagination. Instead, I only say drive safe. I only say see you soon. But what I want to say is that I cannot survive the thought of losing you. What I want to say is please come back to me. Every time.