He was tapping his fingers relentlessly. His eyes staring out the window as dawn broke on the other side of the glass. He was listless and exhausted. We had been up all night. My own eyes were burning with the tingly sensation that begged for sleep. This conversation was not over even though neither of us had spoken a word in the last twenty unforgiving minutes. He was sitting less than a foot away from me, but by the way we both recoiled from each other, you would think there was a river of hot lava running between us. We had done this before.
I caught his eye, and the usual warmth was like cold gray steel. It occured to me that his eyes always brightened or darkened with his mood. Or maybe it was just my imagination, as usual, running rampant. At this point though, we had both said things that we couldn’t recover from, and no matter the color, his eyes were telling. I shivered slightly, and a light freckling of goose pimples covered my skin. For a moment, the chill in his gaze broke as he asked me if I was cold and reached for a blanket to drape over me.
My heart puddled for a split second. These small gestures were the only things that kept me hanging on. I knew he cared so much, that even in all his haste and anger, he couldn’t bare to know that I was cold and do nothing. It did not matter that I wasn’t cold at all, and his frigid stare had delivered the chill in the first place. I loved him. And I did not want to let go. But I had to. That much was inevitable.