I face the wall. She is behind the wall. I know she is. I can feel her. I can feel a sense of her. Is it that she no longer shouts out to me, or that I am no longer capable of hearing? Why now?
Stretching, probing, I feel the wall crack. It is a small crack, barely enough to push through. But barely enough still is enough.
Power that once could break through mountains, now strains to cross through the crack. I hide the effort in polite chatter. Meaningless, distracting. Which is its purpose.
—ourse you’re important to me I say. Why else would I— The wall blinks and blinks again. I knew something about those blinks. I remember knowing, but I can’t remember what I knew.
“I” “know” “of” “course” “I” “know” “It’s” “just” “that” “we’ve” “been” “together” “for” There! There! connection The sweetsweetsweet feeling of connection.
It is only surface, but it is there and ohgod how I have missed it. I bathe in the glorious sense of how she sees the world, the subtle differences between her impression of red and my own.
How she is intrigued by scents that I find repugnant. Laughing inside, exulting in the pure joy of connection, I almost miss the vision. Is that how she sees me?
The movement is effortless, like it used to be when I connected with the world. It is all I can do to keep from crying with wonderhappinessrelief. I am back.
But I look. . . different. Through her eyes, I look . . . odd. There is a cruel cast to my eyes and a small almost-sneer hiding around the corner of my lips. And the glow.
What happened to the glow that used to surround my image whenever she she caught sight of me? NO! Nononononono. She can’t have changed. I can change her ba— No, not again. I promised.
I need to know. I must know. No one else has ever made me feel so well. I delve dee— The crack is closing. I stretch, pull, fight. . . Connection fading. There! The truth! If I can just—
The wall stands firm, impregnable and I am only myself. The wall smiles, sadly, I think. But I cannot be sure. “I love you,” she says. But I cannot KNOW.