I had a long talk with myself. Possibly plural myselves. Something like that. And decided that it was really and truly for the best if I just left well enough alone, that he'd understand, that maybe in a few days (a little voice says 'weeks' and I want to kick it so hard it can't speak again, the thought of weeks without HURTS) I'd be calmer and I wouldn't...

...wouldn't what, Jax?

Wouldn't act like a sex-crazed nympho? Wouldn't go all Domme and demanding? Wouldn't pressure him into something it is painfully obvious he doesn't want, won't accept, and can't handle?

Yeah. Something like that, anyway.

But now all I want to do is talk to him, wrap my arms around him, tell him how much I understand, that it was done to me, that I know what it's like to come home one afternoon and realize that the lock is gone, they changed the goddamned doorknob, replaced it, just so that there was no way I could have privacy ever again.

I want to nuzzle him and hold him and explain that there's still a little door in your head, that there's always a door there, one that I want to go through but won't, I swear I won't, it's his, his mind, his heart.

I don't want to leave him alone.

I don't want to calm down.

I don't want to be rational and logical and do the right thing.

I just want to come as close as I can to telling him it's ok.

And even writing this... I need to stop this. It's going to come out wrong, no matter what I do, no matter what I say. But I think I need to say at least this much, or I won't be able to forgive myself:

T'lesh, I'm sorry, and I'll miss you, and it'll be OK.