It is always on negative ground that I walk. We do not share the same ground here. He holds my hand, our arms are both stretched at their maximum lengths. We hurt. We’re in pain. He always walks on the positive side.

Every day he works on getting me to cross over. He builds bridges, roads and planes. BUILDS. I watch him every day, amazed. He pays such close attention to me. He knows exactly how I would want to travel. But I don’t want to travel. I rather stay on my side, preparing for all the bad things that might happen if I cross over.

He watches this. Sometimes it’s ok and none of it is too serious. Sometimes the weight of me not being ready is too much to bear.

We talk about our histories and our patterns. The abuse we witnessed at home. The belief that we were lovers in a previous life. Our inexplicable desire to fight for each other — fight with each other — over and over again. We’ve never exercised this tolerance with any other partner before.

I think I’m here because of how he expresses love. He gives himself in a way I’ve never experienced before. Fully. He’s completely vulnerable, yet stubborn, relentless. He says everything with the most amazing conviction. His words are a noose that are around your neck before you even realize it, but it tightens slowly.

What started as play somehow turned into a (perceived?) need for permanence — or security at the bare minimum — and now we’re being tousled around in this self inflicted turbulence.

And when this wasn’t happening, I don’t even think we were in love like this. Did we convince ourselves we feel this strongly because we started fighting for something that we couldn’t explain?

None of this was ever intended.

How do you stop when there is no choice? It feels wildly out of our control. Sometimes I think about something horrible happening to one of us — something that causes a physical death. It’s the only way I can imagine this stopping.

I told him I loved him first. I just wanted him to know. I didn’t want him to do.