I'm not ready. I'm not as old as I pretend to be. I'm not a lot of things. Maybe I'm not the one. And maybe she is, and maybe that terrifies me. Maybe it's all in my head. As we lie in bed, your breathing slows, and I stare out the blinds, and I know it's probably my fault for being this way. I know you make me happy, and I know I don't. I think I could, if I'd just relax. I'm not as confident as I need to be. I'm not reassured by anyone. I'm not sure where these tears are coming from. And I'm not sure where to go from here.
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