I spent all of Monday evening worrying that I might lose him. I spent all of Tuesday waiting to see him. And it was good. The talking and the cuddling and the touching and the sex. And then it comes back. The feeling of wrongness, settling in like fog.
It is a vague and unsettling feeling. It resists definition. I try to poke at it, understand it, but there is nothing there. I don't know what I mean by wrong. I don't know why. And so I ignore it, or try to. I label it Future Problem, the kind that is Not To Be Borrowed.
Instead I tell him I need more me time. I probably don't say it well. He worries. Is he being too clingy? Is there something wrong? What do I mean and why? And as much as I like that his response is so much like what mine would be—I get it, I do—I worry that he has too much at stake. But I don't say so. Not yet. We made definite plans for Friday, and tentative plans for Thursday.
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