“No, really, I’m ok. Of course I know I can talk to you, I just don’t feel the need to talk right now.”
The cup lays neglected on the table, its tempting froth long flat… slowly getting cold.
“No, I’m not keeping it all inside. I’m just not ready to talk about it.”
The book sits beside the cup, from its pages distant lands keep calling… unheeded.
“I don’t know if it’s too soon. No, I don’t know when I’ll be ready to talk about it, or if I’ll ever be.”
The table –at the farthest corner from the entrance, near the quiet garden– strains over the weight of an unwanted presence.
“Listen, I appreciate your worrying about me and all, but I really just need to be alone for a while.”
The chair, usually comfortable, becomes a rock opposite a place that just keeps getting harder under the pressure of intrusion.
“I *KNOW* I’m not the only one who’ll miss him. He had a lot of friends. But we all need our own space to mourn him in our own way.”
The wall slowly becomes a corner from which there is no escape. Where there’s no chance for flight, there’s only fight left.
“WILL YOU PLEASE STOP IT! I know he’s dead and yes I know it hurts! Talking about it doesn’t help me ‘let it out’, it just reminds me that a friend is dead and I will never see him again! Do you *REALLY* want to help? Then just leave me alone please.”
A pained face slowly walks away. A pang of guilt walks by without stopping.
A new cup brings with it the embracing smell of fresh coffee.
The book is opened.
The silence is restored.