He watches my face and lets my face tell him whatever my face is telling him without asking any questions, treating me as his Luna and then he nods once and opens the outer door for me.
In the car, he starts the engine but doesn’t drive, turning to me and the expression on his face finally asks what his lips do not.
He wants to know what’s wrong with me.
“I’m fine,” I say. “She gave me something. I just need rest.”
He looks at me, not convinced.
I look at the dashboard, guilt ridden,
We both know I am not fine and I am hiding something from him but he respects my hesitation at opening up.
He puts the car in gear, and the silence that fills the car is a new silence.
Not the silence of a man holding me while I cried.
A silence with a shape.
A silence I put there, and he is letting
