Just Adachi

The moon has turned its back on me, no longer a witness to the keening utterances I make. Last week, it kept vigil as I tossed and turned in bed. Yesterday, it watched me wander through sleep in search of you. But tonight it turns away, refusing the burden of my grief, no longer a witness to a soul reaching for another already in flight.

I can't stay. I wish there was an easy way to tell you. I can't stay. When I decided to leave, I cannot say  but on the day I cross the threshold I will leave behind a gore that will break you, a gore only you can feel. You will double in pain; you will shatter as you stare at the red streaks. Your heart will clench like a fist as you look back on our time together, what we ate what we drank. You will cry for me. But by that time I will be at the border, trying to cross over into the city of the has-been. Your pleas unreachable to my ears, your prayers muffled in padded cotton holding my shed skin. I couldn't stay. I wish I had a reason for you. We are back to square one. Perhaps we will choose each other again.

She reminds me of ancient trees, firmly rooted despite the punishment they receive. She who once held her world in her backyard learned that anticipation carries a deadline. One day it rains and her backyard sprouts. One day it stops and her backyard wilts. Anticipation has a deadline. And on that day, she did not lay out breakfast for the milk stopped getting delivered. She went instead to her backyard and uprooted the tree with twin stumps straddling the pond. “They drink more water than they deserve,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Shall we have breakfast tomorrow?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “but not with milk.”

Last night I came across a tweet that asked if it is possible to have a conflict-free relationship. While most of the responses circled around romantic partnerships, I couldn’t help but think wider. Every kind of relationship, be it family, friendship, community, work, lives in the tension between challenge and care. Problems arise, emotions flare, and suddenly the way people respond to each other becomes as important as the issue itself. In those moments, two tendencies often show up: the comforter and the compounder. The comforter is one who listens with empathy, who understands that solutions often begin not in logic but in tenderness and empathy. They sense that what the other person needs first is not a lecture but presence; an embrace in words or even silence that says, “You don’t have to carry this alone.” For the comforter, the framing is always we vs. the problem. That shift alone changes everything: it turns conflict into a chance to deepen trust. Even when the answers are un...