I think to avoid the trouble of retelling, and in the interests of brevity and straightforward spirit, you opted to send your trauma in a pastebin. In a message meant for many others, I read the story of your life. Obliquely you might have wanted to spare me the silence of listening, of vaguely worded mhm's and ok's. That, I understand, and I oblige.

I think, as I grow to read you, that we are not entirely different from each other - though I loathe to stress the similarity, because in similarity do two things grow to become one in the Almighty's eyes and we are not one, just yet. The universe extolls in its differences, keeps itself fertile. I keep my distance, voice my common concern. Yes, I have thought about it too, like you. No, it has never been a possibility. Mostly intellectual. Mostly. Sometimes I am surprised that I did not do it myself.

You nod, and tell me that you understand.

The possibility of the deed lies hanging over my head like a sword. Perhaps that metaphor is inapropos - what I mean is that I do not address it along its edge, handling it instead by the blunt back end, and handing it back to you. You take it, receive. I know of the person who has hurt you now, and their name is black on my tongue. But I shall not speak it. Perhaps you are okay with that, or you tell yourself that, at least. I sense otherwise. She isn't us, she won't be us. She won't be in this circle that I call us. That's not something I can allow for your sake - or actually, mine.

In the fruit of this knowledge, you might allow yourself to grow. In my knowledge, I allow myself to grow, too, towards you, but never really touching your stem. It's in this space that we allow each other to breathe; closed wounds fester, and never heal.