But she smiled at me, told me she was fine, and even though I knew it was a lie, I felt powerless. I couldn’t force her to talk to me, to be honest with me, to trust me. Didn’t matter how much I wanted her to come around. It wasn’t up to me. Something had happened, but she wouldn’t tell me what. It was plain to see … she’d gone from open, happy, mine, to disappearing into her thoughts, her mood shifting inward for the rest of the night. Sure, she still participated, still smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. She talked, laughed, but none of it came from her heart. The cab ride home was long and quiet, putting aside what I wanted to give her the space she wanted. Because what I wanted was to machine-gun her with questions, to make her talk to me so I could fix it. Even the physical space between us in the taxi as she leaned on her door, looking out the window, was vast. It was only a few feet, but she was miles away. My anxiety ratcheted with every second, every word left unspoken hanging between us.
