People who don’t know won’t see. But I do.

By the way your lids droop just the tiniest bit and the slight flutter of your lashes. Your gaze looks down and your lips frown for just a split second before starting each sentence after the last quiet. Your sentences fade into the quiet. They stop halfway, disconnected from your thoughts, your thoughts disconnected from the present. You become disconnected from the present. Then the gaze slowly comes up to a blank spot on a surface so you can reminisce.

Lots of people have lots of giveaways. Most of them are clichés. Like how the eyes are windows to the soul? In your case, it’s your heart’s way of opening a window and shout its contents to its content.

You’re still in love. I can tell.

By how you become so gentle. The way you hesitate talking about her and what you two have been through. What you had and still have.  How your voice comes from somewhere deeper, pushing the corners of your mouth slightly upwards. Then you snap back to reality. I can tell by the way you glimpse at me, absentmindedly trying to convince me you’re paying attention before going through the cycle all over again.

I know because you look to me for comfort.

People who don’t get justice get angry and disappointed. They don’t need comfort—they need revenge. People who need comfort are sad. But you’re not the kind of sad that kids get when they lose candy. Your kind of sad is from what ifs and wishful thinking. And that sad never needs comfort for consolation.

You want comfort for replacement of what you wish you hadn’t lost.

That’s why you become—dare I say it?—(slightly) sweet. Why you suddenly want extra company. Why you suddenly get touchy around me. For whatever reason it is, you need someone to run to.

I know you’re still in love. You stutter each time you start to utter about her. You repeat the end—first to me, then to yourself, then in thought.

“Well, that’s it.”

Yeah, that’s it. But that’s not the end of it to you. And maybe to her too.

Whatever you had was real and still is. Part of it, at least. And there’s still residue. You’re still letting go, and the time to move on isn’t yet due.

I guess the signs are going to stay awhile more. The random serious moods and pauses when you hesitate to bring her up. The incessant mumbling afterwards that never then suddenly stop. The little details that come out. They’re all still here. For just a little while, maybe, but still.