Friday night in. Another one.

Gods, how sad. How much I miss him. He should have been, should be, in my life.

So close to perfect. So close.

On Wednesday, as I mentioned, a spiral towards nervous breakdown hit me a little before lunch. I called him in barely controlled tears.

He cancelled his business meeting(s?), cancelled his day, to drive to me, to take me to lunch and hold me while I cried for nearly two hours, cried into his lap, his chest, his shoulder, all the things that have happened this week.

When I asked him to drive me to my class that evening, because I was so exhausted, because I needed to be in his presence for longer in hopes of getting myself under control, he said yes and cancelled the rest of his day. Everything.

He picked me up from work at 5PM, then took me on the two hour drive to my class.

He brought his truck, the big one. So I laid across the front seat, my head in his lap, and talked with him for length of the drive while he alternately stroked my face, stared into my eyes, and rested his hand on the skin of my hip underneath my shirt.

He told me jokes, told me stories, listened to my fears and worries. He touched me and soothed me in a way that I've allowed no other man. Tapping straight into me, through the pain, through the loss.

He waited while I took my final, ran an errand to prep for his vasectomy today.

He wandered around the small campus until I was done, exploring and chatting with staff and students.

When I stepped out of the classroom, first done as always, he was staring up at me from the patio downstairs.

Beautiful hugs. Full body linkage, every curve, every angle, fit together. Lips resting on his neck. Hands held, I love you's exchanged.

He drove me back to work to get my car.

We talked.

We talked about us, about his decision, about actions I had taken, about how leaving him at the beginning of November like I did was what allowed him to determine that we would likely not work, allowed him to think, though he would have come to that conclusion anyway, he said.

I could hate myself for allowing that fear and panic to dictate my actions without thought like I did that day.

We talked about how I showed up on his doorstep the day before Thanksgiving, and how he found that mildly offputting. He doesn't like suprises. But he found it ballsy, admirable.

I suspect he said that last part to make me feel better.

He warned me not to push the relationship with him, that it would never happen. And I told him I knew, that I would respect his decision, words carrying up to him from my head in his lap, his hands on the wheel above me. So strong, so confident.

When I mentioned that Darkeyes and his girlfriend broke up, he near shouted with joy and kissed me on the lips.

I tried to dodge. Told him not to do that again. That I know he meant it friendly, but I would have a hard time being his friend if he did such things.

The second time, hours later, he could not reach and I told him again to stop.

He has made his decision. We are never going to be intimate again. I have to accept that, I have to heal, and then I can more forward.

He told me that he expected me to call him when I needed help getting my wedding ready, stamps on hundreds of envelopes he said, and he hoped to be the godfather of my future child.

That maybe, once I had been married (and assumed divorced), when we were older, maybe. When I got kids and marriage needs out of the way.

I can only assume he was joking.

I think.

Call me for the next crisis? he asked.

I told him I would. That he would only hear from me in a bad situation because the pain of him being in my life but not In My Life would have to be outweighed by the pain of the situation. Until I got over him.

He told me to stop convincing myself I was just fucking to fuck. That I needed to not engage in those habits. Imagining, fantasizing, more than was there so I could get through the months.

It's hard to imagine having casual sex again.

He asked, though he knew, that I liked the violent sex because it was the only time I ever got to stop thinking.

No, I said, also when we make... made love. He knew.

I realized when he said that, that once we got into the intense emotional connection/trust territory, when sex turned to love, I no longer felt the need, the urge, for rough sex. It wasn't there. I was submissive, I pleased, but I did not need or want the pain and the bruising.

I remember the headlights flashing across his face, sliding over the ceiling of the truck. His sure, perfect movements. Wonderful behind the wheel, something that I admire.

We talked about the things I need in a partner, the things I found in him that I never expected to find. And how unlikely it was that I would find those things again.

And we talked of balance, of my willingness to sacrifice some of my life goals to be with him. Because I function on supply, because those who I am willing and able to be with are so uncommon that if I find one that fits most of the way, even if major pieces are missing, I find it worth it.

But he doesn't. Because he thinks he's a single male by design, forever.

I told him I didn't believe that. That around 60 or 70, he'd want steady, committed companionship. He'd mellow out and crave it.

I watch him. I know. He does need it. But he needs freedom more at the moment.

He came in on Wednesday and saved me. When nothing else was working, when I thought I would have to walk out on my job on the spot in order to calm down, to relieve that one source of many of anxiety and stress so I wouldn't break, he came to me. He held me, listened to me, let me cry. He got me to laugh. He touched me.

My white knight.


And then we drove our separate ways.