Where I End and You Begin (The Sky is Falling In)

     Things have been different for a while now.  Six weeks perhaps?  Shorter?  Longer?  Who's to say?
     An eye roll here, a muttered aside there, a casual, caustic response.  And it's me, I know it's me.  Does it all trace back to a single afternoon?
     "It's totally your fault and I don't feel sorry for you."  "Did I ask you to?"
     And it grew, slowly, escalating quietly while we ignored it, wishing it would take care of itself.  Knowing it wouldn't, but wanting it to anyway.  Its manifestations were fewer and farther between in the beginning.   "You already asked me that."  The animosity was surprising, hurtful.  We buried it rapidly, only allowing a few tense syllables before the gentleness returned.  In its place was pleading, mostly from him, and from me ice. "I'm not saying that just to piss you off, it's true."  His attempts at sweetening the disagreements are rejected, heartlessly.   "Don't touch me."  Eventually the effort is wearing, and he gives in to my antics. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."  "It's not my personal opinion, it's common etiquette. It's not like I make this shit up."   Weariness turns to frustration as boredom and annoyance collide and spiral into bitterness. "After this drink, I'm leaving."  My apologies flood hurriedly, overwhelmingly, effectively.  Promises of love are issued and reissued softly, soothingly, as dissonance is assuaged into its more pleasant opposite.  And then it starts over.
     Apathy replaces heartbreak quickly, before I can even notice that it's painful.  This is my usual defense, the easiest and most effective.  And most destructive.  Neglect comes easily. Phone calls are ignored and not returned.  Texts left unopened, acknowledged only with a sigh.  Read days later and deleted as I roll my eyes.  Who are we and what happened to us?  It's mostly me, I know.  It's always mostly me.  I'm so uneasy in the face of conflict.  I roll my eyes and retreat, mumbling away my passive aggression.
     Until his masculinity builds, and all he has left to contend with is the overwhelming inadequacy of my half-sincere apologies for my constant absence.
     He begins hesitantly, nervously.
   "Don't say I didn't try!"  
   My reactions are so predictable, though maybe only to myself.
   "I never said that."
   He fumbles.
   "I mean in the future."
   I've stifled compassion.
   "Why would I say that?"  
   "Never mind."  
   Safe.  Conflict free.  Unscathed?  Alone.  Which is the only way to be safe.
     I've underestimated him.  I have that tendency.  With most everyone.  He regroups and confronts me, unwavering.  I barely acknowledge a syllable.  My self-control is rigid, inflexible.  I lock myself into  indifference and monosyllables.  This is how I ruin everything.  I know it's coming.  His frustration intensifies, I can feel him seethe in every word.  I actively disregard this.
   "I think you're taking this a little personally."  
  "I'm not.  We had all these plans..."  
   I focus on emptiness.
  "I really don't know what to say."
     Struggling to get comfortable, I twist and turn.  I breathe deeply, concentrating on the harsh intake of air and its controlled release.  Control.  Control.  Control.  I can't sleep.  Nothing ever keeps me awake.  I can sleep off anything.  Why am I still awake?  I lie, listening to the slow, automatic beating of my cold,  empty heart.  "I'm sorry," I almost whisper to the darkness, but I'm not willing to give that up yet.
     Am I about to lose the best friend I've ever had?