"You need to put me in a compartment," he said.
Compartment? she thought. Compartments are for shoes and old tax returns, not for people.
"I don't do compartments," she replied.
She wondered how he could even conceive such a thing let alone request it of her. She wondered how long he'd kept her in a compartment in his mind. She wondered what that compartment looked like. Was it a box with small breathing holes cut into the side or a padded room with a lock on the door? And how often was she allowed out? But the question that burned most in her mind was, after all this time, if she wasn't spilling all over his mind, his heart, his life, what the hell was she even doing here?
He looked at her as if he had heard all of her questions, but he did not answer them. She sighed and wiped away the tears now streaming down her face. His carefully chosen silence hurt as much as his carefully chosen words.