I thought maybe we could know each other. As if perhaps I understood you on some level you didn’t see yourself. I knew your history, your reputation, shall we say; your penchant for sardonic wit and condescending elitism, but still, I passed it off as socially awkward, insecurity, deep sadness.
I stood up for you, encouraged others to look inside your heart, consider we’re all one blood, there’s salt in your tears as in mine; that you didn’t mean it — you just didn’t know better.
In my way, I tried. I’d just be there in case you wanted to talk, I asked about you, tried to peer deep within, know you’d bleed if cut, even though your indifference burned.
One day I saw you pick up your child and lovingly hold her as you cooed in her ear. There! I thought. There it is! This is where we can be alike. This is where we meet in the middle. This is where we know each other.
That was all. Just that one moment. And only I acknowledged it, you could care less whether I were there or not.
And so that’s how it was. I came to see it didn’t matter how much I tried to know you, how much I aimed to understand. But the difference was, you did know me, you did see me, the way I conducted myself, my blood and tears. You knew. You knew.
All it took was one thing; just one. Your mind eclipsed any knowledge of my good, made its decision, shut me out.
There was no inclination to peer deep inside, to consider the more to me than that one thing.
And that’s where we’re the most different of all.
So I never knew you.
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