Her voice is large enough to fill a room, so large my voice is an imitation. I answer, echoes bounding back, small and infinite. What I think is not always said out loud. I am the reflecting place for her thoughts; in that, I give her worth, the difference between yes and no, what will happen and what will never be. Yes, Theo will still be here, years from now. No, she won’t even leave. Will I be happy? I’m sure I’ll find out when she and I speak again, during the long hours which creep through night, the dark clutching at words, long-limbed tendrils of dark crawling over our bed. The dark which is rich enough to plant ideas, so deep the ideas take on life of their own, sprouting, inching their way bit by bit, until they bloom in the corners of the ceiling and crack open the window. The wallpaper is heavily patterned and I can see a version of myself behind it, listening intently. I pay more attention from the outside looking in.