It’s like an episode of Friends. I know. They don’t know I know. Or they wish I didn’t. But I do. Still, no one says a thing. I’ve asked, and had my queries laughed at. But I’d have to be an idiot to not know.

Of course it would be hard to learn, finally, after so much time and energy spent wondering and multiple denials, that such suspicions were more than just paranoia, but I always remember the old phrase: Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Not because they hate you. Because they love you, and they don’t know how to tell you. They’re afraid of how it might affect you, and they’re right to be. But the truth is more important, because I’ve asked before, and they’ve lied. For my own good, they undoubtedly told themselves in justification, but still. There it is. The object that obstructs my moving forward. The roadkill that used to be my trusting heart. I understand why they’re scared to say anything.

There may be another angle, that they’re scared to vocalize, to admit to themselves in a way that might make it real. So let’s bring yet another elephant into the room and try to ignore that one, too.

Of course, they don’t have to tell me, because I already know. The facts already affect me, almost as much as the lies by omission. And in this state, still wounded, we’re all trapped here together, without any chance for progress or hope of sutures.

Still, with them knowing I know, it would be nice to finally know. You know?