The fact that you showed up said something. Something I couldn't decipher but could sense perhaps might be good, that it might be a gesture inspired by gratitude, or a misplaced sense of duty, or at the very least some dim sense of guilt. But not love. I had realised long before that it had never been love that had drawn you to me, and I was proud that I had come to that realisation on my own.
There was a sheepishness in your manner, the way took off your coat. A sheepishness that gave me a magnificent sense of validation - a precious, silent victory that I held tight.
But as the light faded so too did the feeling until it was a circling, voluminous nothingness, an apathy that drained me of all other emotion.
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