The way you argued with me, you would have thought that we were debating the existence of God or whether or not we should move in together. These kinds of fights can never be won – even if you’re the victor, you’ve hurt the other person, and there has to be some loss associated with that.

The truth feels different from other things. The closest you can come to describing it is that it feels like taking a perfect breath.

When we’re alone together, I’m the destination. When I’m here in her life at school, I’m the disruption.

It would be too easy to say that I feel invisible. Instead, I feel painfully visible, and entirely ignored.

Let me hold on to this the way it was, before I knew anything else.

The word I think of is precarious. I am struck by how precarious it all is. How the things that hold us are only as strong as the faith we have in them.

The older I get, the more I lose my ability to breathe.