Rough, at the least.

There are many stories, anecdotes and conversations that have transpired. There are words and thoughts that have been forgotten in mere moments. There are paragraphs upon paragraphs that have wished to be written, only to be pushed aside.

He called me into his office that day, fuming anger rose quickly to the tip of his tongue and there was something sad lingering in that room. I knew.

He knew.

He asked me to sit down. Prickly heat traveled to my fingers, I sat forward in angry anticipation of the things I knew he'd say. He began, his voice wavering, his coolcalmcollectedness gone. Words that I had written began to fill that office, so many feelings of love, hatred and confusion began to fight for my attention. He kept reading until it was done, dwelling on the juicy, indigent and scandal. And I just sat there. I couldn't leave even if I had wanted to.

Quiet, so loud that it stung, overcame me and I couldn't even form an explanation. His eyes bored into mine and he kept prodding.

Is it true? he asked so many times.

It's fiction, I said and walked out.

No longer feeling exposed and exploited, I moved into new emotional territory. Those were my words and thoughts, true or not, and I knew he'd make them into a prison that would destroy the only thing I am.

I became defiant, insisting that none of it was true. The more I said that, the more I wondered whether or not any of it had been. But whose to ever say that my account of a moment, an instance is a representation of anything other than my personal account. Perhaps in a moment I felt anger he thinks I shouldn't have, or sadness he didn't believe to be real.

In days, he forgave me. In months, I have yet to forgive him, though he wouldn't know it. In the absence of writing, there was an absence of thought. I let daily life numb my feelings and emerged somehow in love with something. I'm not sure it is him, though in most moments I do find myself thinking it is.

He plans to ask me to marry him in mere months and I don't know what to say.