An optical illusion

As Lydia tediously unwraps the packaging of the day's events, Harvey listens with the intensity befitting the utterly smitten: with open, searching eyes and gentle nods of reassurance.

"Anyway, I'm rambling on," she says. "How was your day?"

Harvey smiles a tight, forced smile.

"Just fine."

His lips tense, almost buckling from the deluge of unfiltered emotion sloshing inside his head. Words press against the back of his clenched teeth like prisoners in a burning prison. Words like, "I'm just fine, except for the stultifying feeling of loneliness I felt at 3:18pm this afternoon. It felt like between me and the distance of furthest star space — the furthest speck in space — there was no one I can count on. I told you this, and when you texted me back:

Maybe you need some new friends

Instead of:

You're not alone

Or:

Don't worry

Or:

You have me

My spirit slackened and I begged to see you tonight and you said

Sure thing

And here we are, in deep conversation about your day, and interdepartmental elementary school politics, and not once have you inquired why or how I suddenly feel like the only beating heart from here to UDFj-39546284, and I finally understand, in the way that an optical illusion tumbles in your mind until the moment you understand it, that I am alone. And that you an are an optical illusion too."

But the words never leave Harvey's lips. And he forces his lips to relax.