"So sorry...

you're going through all this" you tell me. "I hope these things move out of your life soon."

As if I'm a stranger. As if you are. As if these things that have moved into my life fell from the sky like raindrops, irritating, but soon to pass.

I ponder, write and rewrite how to respond. Knowing I won't get any closures, answers, epiphanies. Knowing I should let it go, be the bigger person, move on.

But the thing is, there WAS something you could do to help. You could have told me about her. You could have not gone on the trip. You could have been "honest, honest, honest" like your profile STILL on the site reads. You could have been open to the possibility of loving me, or at least not needed adoration, admiring disciples so much.

And the question, unfaceitious, unhysterical, completely sincere remains. Why?

I hope you will tell me the rest before it hits. Like a truck. From nowhere. Again. From police reports or message archives (that turn my stomach!) or the gods at Lexis.Nexis. I expect that you won't, but I must ask all the same.