It's just a bunch of paper. Just a bunch of paper. About a hundred pages or so. Doesn't weigh that much, does it? Like it feels like its weight could drug you through the floor? Paper's supposed to be smooth, isn't it? Not so rough like it could scrape your skin raw.

It's just a bunch of paper. A bunch of paper with printer ink scattered all over them. I can see the ink, sitting on top of the paper, sort of like icing on a cake. I can feel the bumps, brushing against my fingers as I ran them across the paper. The ink from the pen, on the other hand, are pressed into the paper from the pressure of the pentip, like little rivers running at the bottom of valleys carved into the smooth surface of the grass plain, seeping into the surrounding fabric like fine tendrils of hair spouting from a plant root.

It's just a bunch of paper with ink splashed over them. A bunch of paper he's been laboring over, every spare moment he had, for the past two weeks. Carried it with him everywhere he went. Pouring over them in dark corners where the lights were so bad he could hardly see. Leafing through them in noisy clubhouses where the music was so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. Absently chewing on the end of his pen. Frowning. Mumbling. Eyes brightening as some idea flared in his head. Chuckling out loud, at something he wrote himself, for god's sake. Hand flashing as he made some quick correction. Always there. Always at your side. Waving it in your face. Always.

You just had to read it didn't you? What else were you supposed to do? You knew it was about you. About me. Always about me.

Who is this man, what is he doing at your side? A friend, your partner, your lover? The man who saved your life the day you first met? God, I can feel the weight of his body against mine, as it presses me into the ground, onto the hard, sticky surface of the asphalt.

Remember the first time you called him partner? You never knew anybody could have such a blinding smile. Was that when you fell in love with him?

It's a bunch of paper. It's a lead weight pressing against your heart, blocking your breath. It's a bitter taste rising from the pit of your stomach and sticking in the back of your throat.

Where is the caring friend, the always dependable partner? Where is the passionate lover who shoots fire down your veins with a look? The fierce shaman, the determined guide, forcing you to face your fears and your gifts when you would rather look away?

I don't recognize him, the man who wrote this paper. I don't know the cold, objective voice permeating these pages. Where was he hiding, was he there all the time? Observing, analyzing, dissecting, criticizing me with cold, piercing eyes?

I see myself in this paper, I see it too well. All my faults and insecurities laid bare for the world to see. Like a dissected corpse spread out on the autopsy table. He knows me well. He knows me so well.

You felt safe with him, felt safe with his knowledge. You knew he would use it to help you, to protect you, to love you, to keep you safe. What did you know? What did you know?

He is angry at you for reading the paper. Of course he should be. He asked you not to read it, didn't he? You are the one who is wrong here, aren't you? Aren't you?

Does he know how deeply this cuts you? Does he have any idea how deeply hurt you are? Of course he does. Can't you see it in his eyes?

But there's also resentment. And anger. And annoyance. Angry at you for reading this. Resenting you for being hurt. Annoyed at your childishness.

He needs to turn this in, he keeps saying. He'll lose his grants if he doesn't, he says. It's important to him, he says.

To him. Important. To him.

When did he ever put his needs ahead of you? I can't remember a time he ever did. Am I a selfish bastard if I always want it that way?

You need him. Always did. It was your need that drove you to him. He fulfilled your needs. All of them. Always.

Am I a child throwing a tantrum just because I'm not the center of the world? His world? What were you thinking, throwing an ultimatum in his face like that? He looked so angry, he looked like he will explode. He was so angry, he couldn't flip the switch on the shredder.

Even if he did manage to shred this copy, he has it on a file on his computer, doesn't he? Oh god, I hope he didn't delete it.

What more do you want, huh? Any more tortures you can dream up for him before you can let this go? He needs this. You can give him that much, can't you?

What did that guy say? Listen to the whispers of your heart? The whispers of my heart?

I love him. Love him. So much. Wouldn't hurt like this if I didn't, would it?

It's just a bunch of paper. A bunch of paper with his soul in it. With his love for me in it, behind all the cold scientific jargon. Behind all the objective analysis. I can see it. I can recognize the man I love. That should be enough, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it?

It's just a bunch of paper. How can a bunch of paper burn your soul? Chill your heart?

It's a bunch of paper. It shouldn't weigh so much. It shouldn't feel like the weight of the whole world is in my hands. It is the weight of the whole world in my hands. Mine. His. Ours.

It's a bunch of paper. It's a lead weight pressing against my heart, blocking my breath. It's a bitter taste rising from the pit of my stomach and sticking in the back of my throat.

It's his life, and mine, in my hands.