His gaze seemed to cut me open like a knife, like I was prone on a metal slab, and he was performing an emotional autopsy. There was nothing I could hide from him, no insecurity, no secret hope or hidden dream. Maybe love was that simple, to see and be seen. So simple and so impossibly complicated because I couldn’t bear for Henning to know what I knew now. That I loved him. Not tenderly, not softly like a song or a poem.
