He used to ask me all the time if I was okay. As though he never knew for sure.
He would ask me when he was tired orfrustrated or when he felt helpless. He would ask me when he was afraid.
He asked me that same question, long after we stopped being lovers—when we became something less yet somehow more.
Are you okay? He would whisper on the phone late at night, when his girlfriend was asleep or had gone to her mother’s forthe weekend.
Are you okay? He hasn’t asked me in years, but I know he still thinks it. I know the question still reverberates in his mind like a broken record and he will keep looking for answers long after there is nothing left to appease him.
It was always the same question, over and over again. Like the start of a procession. And it took me years to recognize the unsaid words that marched silently behind.
Are you okay;because I love you.
Are you okay;because I need you.
Are you okay;because I don’t know how to live without you
By Lang Leav