Understanding

I didn’t want to hear it,
and I told him so repeatedly, but he had to speak.
He explained himself. I tried to understand.
I failed to.
My comprehension was limited to what I thought I knew.
I thought I knew him, but I was wrong.
 
But then, what does it take to truly know someone?
How long does it take to know them through and through?
I say that it’s impossible, though I wish it weren’t true.
…That is my wish—to know him inside and out.
To understand him…
 
I can read the expressions on his face, the emotions that help him, plague him, and consume him. But are these his true emotions, or just a facade, a mask he wears to cover the truth?
…I want to know his heart, to see what it is he truly feels.
What he thinks…
I thought I did—I thought I knew him, but now I see that, down deep, in the caverns of his soul, he is a stranger to me.
 
He continued to speak. His words were censored, passing through the sieve of my thoughts.
They passed through my questioning and were translated into some foreign language;
they, then, passed through my misunderstanding and became words without meaning, noise, static;
finally they stopped dead in the face of my doubt, and I heard nothing.
 
My comprehension failed me. I turned my back to him.
I know he kept up with his explanation—though I heard only silence, I could feel his words; I could feel them pelting me in the back.
So I began to walk away. His rant persisted, but soon died.
 
He called after me then, a sound I heard above the cacophonous silence in my head, and everything stood still; I stopped in my tracks.
In reality all was silent. I stood there, wondering what to do, what to say, where to go…
The hall ahead of me led outside, to… could it be called freedom? Without him?
 
A few moments passed with both of us standing as still as stone, both waiting—hoping—for the other to make his move.
The moments held fast as Time seemed to pass.
After what seemed like a timeless forever and again, I faced the raconteur far behind me.
 
I saw him there, still waiting for me to take some sort of action, mouth parted in disbelief of my possible departure, watching me with those eyes of his; those eyes that always poured everything they had—every emotion, mood, and message—into any who gape into them; those eyes that gave me confidence and comfort. It was in those eyes that I now saw something completely foreign to the person. I saw fear and worry. I saw the same incomprehension of what was still to come that I had of that which had already happened. I saw them staring at me. I stared back, and then I realized the medium to his heart.
 
I peered into his eyes, through them, into the caverns of his soul; into the depths of Heart, and I found what I was looking for.

I found the love I wanted to know. I found an innocence that asked forgiveness. Everything I had sought was there all along. There is no mask to cover it, no lies to hide it; the eyes don't lie.

…But that does not change what he's done; forgiveness will not come easily. As if I had looked into the eyes of Horus, the future had become clear to me. And so I told him—not with my tongue, but through the hurt, penetrating gaze I now held on him:

I need time.

And by the look in his eyes I knew he had understood; on my silent words he closed his mouth and let fall his face to the floor, and with it a single tear.
I turned toward the door, my back to him once again.

And as I walked down the hall to my exit with tears down my face, I realized that we had finally come to our understanding.