"And when you explain things to me, and I can't remember them, you think it's because I'm not interested and don't want to take the trouble.
But you don't know how I torture myself when you're gone. You don't know the books I've struggled over,
the lectures I've sat in on at Beekman, and yet whenever I talk about something, I see how impatient you are, as if it were all childish.
I wanted you to be intelligent. I wanted to help you and share with you—and now you've shut me out of your life."
As I listened to what she was saying, the enormity of it dawned on me.
I had been so absorbed in myself and what was happening to me that I never thought about what was happening to her.
She was crying silently as we left the school, and I found myself without words.
All during the ride on the bus I thought to myself how upside-down the situation had become.
She was terrified of me. The ice had broken between us and the gap was widening as the current of my mind carried me swiftly into the open sea.
She was right in refusing to torture herself by being with me. We no longer had anything in common.
Simple conversation had become strained. And all there was between us now was the embarrassed silence and unsatisfied longing in a darkened room.
"You're very serious," she said, breaking out of her own mood and looking up at me. "About us."
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