You share your ache.

I match it.

I know that feeling.

I’ve been there too.

I’m in it right now.

That wasn’t connection.

That was a reflex.

To not feel what I was feeling

about what you were feeling.

I thought I was relating.

I was performing.

That was my first version.

The one

that stops my pain

or tops your pain

or makes it mutual.

It looks like empathy.

It feels like ego.

That became objectionable.

Something else was indicated.

I learned how to perform concern.

Especially when others were watching.

Soft tone.

Right words.

Earnest face.

That version made me feel better.

Like I was evolving.

It felt good.

What a performance.

It was a good performance.

More generous.

Less self-centered.

It wasn’t.

I wasn’t.

I’m not.

I was hiding it better.

Hiding it with practiced kindness.

With affected tone of voice.

It was progress.

I was hollow.

I couldn’t be with your ache

without making it about mine.

I wanted space.

I kept filling it.

With my discomfort.

With my stories.

I wanted to be held.

I was being asked to hold.

I didn’t like that part.

I wasn’t willing to stand beside someone else

without stealing the moment.

I had to see that.

Had to feel that.

Had to earn that.

Layer by layer.

Layer after layer.

Each time I uncover a version that looks kind,

I discover it’s about control.

Control the discomfort.

Make it about my discomfort.

Control the moment.

Make it about my moment.

Another time, another layer.

Trying to get closer to a capacity.

To hold space.