The urge to confirm and solve this problem for her blooms in my chest, fast and vicious, as it sprouts roots that wrap around my heart and ribs. Beautiful but toxic flowers spread soft yet unruly petals that threaten to blot out my vision, and I push out a gentle, hopefully undetectable, breath to calm myself down, knowing that this, above all else, is our problem. My incessant need to fix, to intervene, to protect when all I really have to do is listen. To ask the right questions and hold space for her answers.
