Sometimes in comforting someone we just can't seem to find the words, most of the time it doesn't matter. Being present, listening well (and sometimes giving a cuddle) is more than words could ever be.
I felt the rage burn inside me.
Heavy. Oh, so heavy.
I felt all control slipping from me.
The lump in my throat, the quivering lip, tears swelling in my eyes ready at any moment to escape and run down my cheek.
I rushed past the closed toilet door, behind it he was sitting.
I wondered what he'd heard, how much does he know? Had he missed it all?
I burst into the bathroom, closing the door promptly behind me, I turned the tap on and started to undress.
I threw my clothes to the floor, much different to my usual neat and soft drop.
It was all a panicked rush, as if I was escaping. I guess I was.
It was early, not my usual time for a shower.
When I first stormed off I wasn't sure of where I was heading, it came to me as I entered the hallway.
I wanted the shower water to run down my face before the tears did.
I wanted the built-up frustration and anger to seep out of me and run down my skin with the drops of water.
I let myself cry. Silently.
I felt a physical ache in my chest.
I scrubbed myself with soap and a loafer, as if making sure there was no frustration or rage left in the pores of my skin.
I watched as the white, foamy, soapy bubbles washed down the drain and I wished I could physically see those emotions following behind. I couldn't see. But I could feel.
"Pull yourself together now," came the voice in my head.
That voice of reason that always shows up after I have been clouded with emotion.
I took a few deep breathes.
I turned the taps off and stepped out onto the bathmat waiting for me.
"A fresh start," that voice said. "I feel better now" it wanted to convince me.
I reached out and grabbed the towel hanging from the nearby rack, I wrapped it around myself.
As I looked up I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I had to take a second look.
Red eyes, red puffy bloodshot eyes.
The door opened. He slid in quickly and shut it behind him.
"You okay Lowo?"
I started to tell him the events that had led me here.
The quick, random events that ignited a hurricane in minutes.
Revisiting it brought back the quivering lip, the big lump in the throat.
I tried to hold it in as I spoke.
His concentrated and concerned face invited me to let it out.
It burst out of the floodgate I'd put up once I'd turned those taps off and my feet had touched that bathmat.
I didn't have the running water to wash it away.
I didn't have the fan noise to make me feel a little bit more invisible.
I was on display, main stage, open, honest, raw and vulnerable.
Not to mention how I looked, my saggy face and bloodshot eyes, my drenched body with nothing but a towel wrapped around it, my dripping hair, wild and knotty.
I didn't care. Not with him.
He moved towards me and extended his arms out, he wrapped them around me and pulled me in.
My dripping face on his chest, his hand rested on the back of my water-logged hair.
He kissed my forehead softly and held me tight.
It calmed me. The pressure of his body against mine, been tucked into his strong and safe arms, being held.
I hadn't dried myself yet. I stepped back to wipe my tears and noticed the front of his light grey shirt now looked a dark black as though a bucket of water had been tipped onto him.
I smiled sheepishly.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be," he replied softly.