Clara, just a few weeks ago, insisted I say goodbye to her. She argued, things were just “too intense.” I argued with her logically and calmly. When that didn’t work, I respectfully gave in, said goodbye, and hung up the phone. And then I wept.

But a week later, the memory of her wasn’t uncomfortable, any residual bitterness had subsided, and the only feeling that remained was anxiety for her well-being.

Until yesterday.

I don’t know whether it was an oversensitive “follow/unfollow” button on my iPhone’s Twitterific. I don’t know whether my looking through her twitter site caused some brain waves to filter over to her. Or maybe it was just sheer happenstance of thought spurred on by technological savvy on both our parts. But yesterday morning, I began receiving her tweets on my phone. Mind you, this woman does not tweet. I’ve never met someone who so fervently insists, despite their own desires to be free, on the privacy of their thoughts.

And they were heart-wrenchingly sad thoughts. But I figured she was in the mood to try some tweeting of her own. I was hesitant to assume her messages were in any way aimed at me.

It was my boyfriend who convinced me otherwise. He argued they were for me, that she was reaching out. He encouraged me to write something encouraging. So I wrote, with some help from Brw, “She who stares into the abyss should never stare alone.” It was me reaching out to her. I wanted her to know I wasn’t mad at her. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone, like her message implied. I wanted her to know she hadn’t done anything irrevocable. So on and on we went, tweeting back and forth in vague recognition of the other. Until I received direct confirmation: my words, she said, gave her strength. I practically wept. I still don’t know exactly how I feel about all this communication. I know I’m happy about it, but I don’t know yet what limitations I need to set on this, how best to protect my heart while still providing her with the care and attention she needs. I don’t know if she wants to continue having contact. If she does, I don’t know how she wants to continue that contact or how frequent she would like it to be. In short, she and I are crawling around in a dark room, aware the other is there, afraid to reach out and have our hand bitten.

To confirm my fears, the one thing I do know is she never asked me how I was. I was sicker than I’ve been since I was a kid, and she never asked me how I was. Is this indicative of the same selfish trend that led to my heartache so few weeks ago? Or can it be brushed away as the negligence of a nervous girl distracted by the fear she was going to get slapped down by someone she suspects, or perhaps knows, she hurt deeply not too long ago. In other words, have I become a twittering twit more eager to save others than herself? The fact I simply thought of the question indicates I still have some sense of self-preservation.

I was just so relieved to know she was okay. I hadn’t let her down, pushed her with what she interpreted as my intensity toward some oblivion. Her words indicated every day was a struggle for her, but they also said, I’m okay, and I’m taking care of myself. She’s getting dressed up nowadays. She’s going to therapy twice a week. She doesn’t need me to push her anymore, and I’m so relieved. I’m relieved she’s figured out she can make hard decisions on her own, even if she still needs some comforting words from me along the way.

So I figure her talking to me, as she was the one who broke up with me, was far harder for her than it was for me. For that reason alone am I willing to ascribe any hint of self-centeredness–I say hint because I may just be over-thinking things, as I often do–to anxiety.

The point is, I’m looking forward to seeing where this goes. I think we’ve both learned some lessons in the last few weeks. No?

…I wonder if she still reads me.