I haven't been writing, but the words are still in me.

I broke through the pause, that trick only psychotherapists seem to know: silent waiting. I fell for it, hook line sinker. I fell into that silence. I wanted to fight my automatic rejection of her. I wanted her to know me.

"Last week was over-whelming."

Her eyebrows raised. She leaned back in her chair, smiling, always that cheshire cat smile. "Oh?"

I looked at the table, the empty chairs, and remembered. The tupperware container of cake. The sticky fingers. The smiles. The praise. The friendly interest. The gratitude. The appreciation.

"Everyone.." I lingered in my memory, seeing the curve of a smile, eyes meeting mine. "Everyone was so kind." A grunt of pleasure as he bites into the cake, half-shouted through the wall as he walked out of the room. "..with their thanks, their.." My memories harmonised with my voice. "Gratitude. Appreciation." I held myself still.

Her own eyes broke through, her forehead tensed. "It was genuine." Her voice drew up like a wall. "You brought cake in, and they appreciated it."

I drew up like a wall, drawing my words back like arrows pointed through slits. "It's not about the cake. I don't..." I sighed. I glanced back, pain rippling across my face with a breath. "I didn't even like the cake. Not as much as them." The white, thick frosting I couldn't digest. "They were kind. It was overwhelming. They were so friendly to me."

She looked at me with concern. Confusion, interest, waiting.

"I'm just not used to it." The memories rolled around me like a cannonball, slowing me down. I glanced at her, my eyes milky with pain, and met her focus with a smile. "It's like we discussed earlier. There are babies of all sorts." The papers fluttered and my vision went white-black-white. "I'm one of those who can't take it in. I'm one of those babies who can't take the happy in." Do you understand what I'm saying?

I take her in.

My heaviness became hers. Her once-quick response takes a moment longer. A moment too long.

With habit, instinct, fear, I move in to contain the unsaid with a rush: "I know I need to let it in." I know. "I know I need to take it in." I'm trying. "I'm trying." I'm trying. Please don't give up on me.

Her words, unheard. Her smile, shaped by relief, masking concern. Her eyes, glassy.

And suddenly I see. This defense is for me. They are defending against me. They are trying to make room, but their eyes, their questions, there is something more there: something uncomfortable, something afraid, something unsure. Something unknowing.

My heart begins adding up the aches. This watching, it goes both ways. And I see you, too. You give me less, but I was raised on neglect. I am trained to see between the lines.

I still see you.

She leaves without saying good-bye, her back to me, moving in a different direction.