I tell myself I’m just observing.

Noticing what happened.

Recalling what was said.

I call it paying attention.

Awareness.

It’s judgment.

Subtle.

Persistent.

Automatic.

I’d started writing a story

without naming the author.

I replayed your words.

Your tone.

Your expression.

The story I told

wasn’t about you.

I said it was.

It was about

how I needed you to be.

How I want you to be.

Like walking away from a meeting

thinking “they didn’t listen”

without asking what story

I brought in about being heard.

This is the loop of my critique

interpreted as my clarity.

The right question is:

What need or fear is this story

built to protect?

In the narrating of your behavior,

I can conveniently avoid my own.

Stories guide our relationships.

Every “you” story I write

was started with a “me”

as the author.