It has already been three years since I've been with you.

I am still, even now, faithfully expressing my love to you.

But perhaps that consistency was the problem. From some point on, the more I whispered love and offered affection, the busier you were pushing me away.

I still don't know how to handle you, who moves two, no, three steps away for every one step I take toward you.

Today, even though it was midnight—long past clock-out time—I waited for you in the darkened living room. I thought maybe you were working late, but since our contact has become sparse, there was no way to know for sure.

One hour passed, then two. It was dawn.

Just as I was pressing down on one hand with the other, the door opened with the sound of the digital lock. The light from the apartment hallway squeezed into the wide-open door, brightening the house just a little.

As soon as I saw you trying to brush past me and head straight inside after muttering a quick 'I'm back' without even a glance, I stood up abruptly, strode over, and grabbed your wrist. I was in a hurry, but I didn't grab you roughly, so it wouldn't have hurt.

Then I searched your face. I saw you make an annoyed expression before quickly fixing it as if realizing your mistake, but rather than feeling sad, I felt relieved. Why was that? Was it because I felt certain that you didn't hate me yet? ...Like a fool, I hesitated as if flustered by your reaction, then I finally spoke.

I'd like... to talk for a bit.