There is frustration and sadness and a heaviness that isn’t in his usual gait as he walks away. Perhaps it’s confusion, or maybe even anger, but there’s no hint of the latter as he leaves the room. The door is shut behind him softly, and it takes all my self-control not to scream out. It’s never pleasant when he leaves; it’s always cold and dreary, grey like the sky before the rain falls. Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m looking too much into his actions, or if I’m simply not seeing enough.
There are days where I think that I have been able to delve into his mind; that I’ve been able to see more of him than the face everyone else sees. But then I realise that his words are seamless, that his mask has been impeccably crafted, and that only a master would be able to distinguish tale from truth.
And it has to be obvious that I am no master.
There is desperation in my actions, and a neediness in my voice as I cry out for him. I am a novice in every meaning of the word, and in every aspect of this role. I want to see behind the mask; I want to dive under the lies and sift through the layers until I reveal the core of his being. I want to be able to help him like no one else has, and being the novice that I am, I make the first mistake of asking.
It becomes clear to me, later on, that if I were to truly help, I would have to do it forcibly, because he would never willingly make the change. Perhaps the change is not for the best, but perhaps it is necessary. It is necessary because despite the controversy, change is perhaps the only constant we have.
Nothing stays the same, and similarly; neither can he.
Even after he leaves, and even once the sound of footsteps has given way to perfect silence, I can still feel the frustration. Nothing else was needed to show exactly how he’d felt. No words and not even actions. It’s colder now, and even as I try to warm myself, I know that it is futile. He is the sky in which I am the sun, and he is a tree of which I am a mere leaf.
He is the brutality of cold, hard reason, and I am nothing but the compassion that cowers under it.