You al­ways were im­pa­tient.

But now, you must bide your time.

You know he will not be able to hear you over the din of his own thoughts.

He hurt you, and badly, but you can­not say a word.

You say no words.

Not to him.

You pre­fer not to think of him. You pre­fer not to think of the pain he has caused you.

Yet your thoughts keep drift­ing to him any­way.

He’s not ready to hear you say your piece. He’s not ready to un­der­stand. He is un­will­ing to lis­ten, and not in­clined to com­pre­hend.

He is trapped in an em­bank­ment of his own emo­tions, and can­not see out through the fog. Your words are not fog lights he wants to see; he’d pre­fer to see any­thing but.

If you said a word now, you’d only re­ceive pain.

He wants you to go to him and say a word. He wants you to sim­ply for­get your hurt.

He wants it all to be for­got­ten and ig­nored.

But it’s one time too many.

It’s all a game, to him. A power game. He wants you to come to him, be­cause to him, he thinks that means he wins.

He loves his power games.

You hate power games.

You know they only lead to more pain.

So you don’t go to him.

You wait.

He’ll have to come to you.

You don’t like this ei­ther.

You’re play­ing the same power game. You don’t want to. But whether you go to him or not, you’re stuck play­ing it.

Be­fore, you al­ways went to him.

Al­ways the same re­sult: pain.

His turn.

You don’t want to cause him pain.

But if he un­der­stands your feel­ings, he will feel it.

If he ever comes to you.

If not…

So be it.

You wait.

You hate wait­ing.

The longer the wait, the more his name be­comes syn­ony­mous with in­vec­tives.

The longer the wait, the more you won­der why you want him to come to you.

The longer the wait, the less you care.

The longer the wait, the less you want him to come to you at all.

You are no longer wait­ing.

You are The De­tec­tive now.

You don’t worry your­self with him or his games any­more.