“What are you thinking about?” he asks me and I stare at him wide eyed for a second wanting to say, “I’m thinking about work and how maybe it’s not going to work out still and I’m thinking about us and how maybe we’re not going to work out either because I keep fucking up,” but I just say, “Nothing,” and go back to picking at my food.
“You just look worried is all,” he says softly and I know that I’m hurting his feelings by not confiding in him, but if I do confide in him, he’ll only say every possible thing that would make my anxiety worse and if I get upset, he’ll say that it’s unfair to him for me to be so sensitive and he’s right because I can’t expect him to know what to say to someone like me. I’m not easy to deal with. I’m all fucked up. And if I’m not careful, it’ll drive him away.
“I just really want this to work. Us, I mean. I really want us to work. I’m trying really hard.” I say around the lump in my throat.
“I know,” he says and when he smiles I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t have a clue.