Donovan and I sit facing each other on the sofa in his dimly lit hotel room that adjoins to mine, talking—not talking—sharing every thought. We see each other so little now it amazes me that we can disregard words yet be completely understood. It’s a sad state. We were born not needing articulation, and our predicament has infringed upon our beauty.

Suppressing the emotions that could ruin everything we have both worked so hard for, my words interrupt our silent admissions of longing. “Now that it is easy to talk openly, tell me how you’re really doing.”