(This piece of writing got launched from a sunday scribbling about "organic." I've used the same characters as my last freewriting exercise last week. They've started coming in more clearly so you might see more scenes with them as the weeks go on.)
The packing was automatic. Open case, insert shirt, fold, fold, tuck into the edge. There wasn’t much to put in the case but I packed with careful motions anyway, trying to draw out the action to last longer because I was unsure. I was unsure of leaving her. Our life on her planet seemed like a dream about to wink out of existence at the slightest pressure. But I had faced these feelings before. They were painful, sure, but not unmanageable. Just breathe through them. You’ve faced worse, I told myself again. Deep breath, fold, fold, tuck, next piece, breathe again.
Quiet steps. She came in to sit on the edge of the window with a small smile in place. Of course, she knew what I was feeling. Even if we had not been together for the last three years, she would have known. Damn Healers, I thought with a sense of resigned love. Why do they have to see everything? But she was quiet as I packed. She knew when to talk and when to listen (don’t they all?), she didn’t press for more. And how could I not love her for that alone? My dear Parsippany, not blinking an eye when I told her I had to follow the dream of the boy. Just to make sure, I had told her.
She had known the life of organic things. There was no forcing here. There might be gentle prodding, strong encouragement, or the kind of silence that brings the truth forward like a knife – but not force. Things grew or did not grow, you helped them be so or you did not. She knew my heart well enough by now to know I had to let it go where it would. And she trusted it would find its way back to her. One way or another, I knew it would.
“You must go?” she asked quietly, again. She would only ask this one time more.
“We’ve tried,” I said, a small note of weariness marking my words. “The other Healers can find nothing, either." Silence. Acceptance. "I have to make sure he is okay. Do you see any other way?” My question practically a plea.
“No,” she admitted. Her dress moved with the slightest sound as she moved to take my hand and put her cheek against mine.
And there she was, letting the moment be what it would be - which was the beginning of a goodbye. She let the force between us grow at its own pace, filling the room quickly.