The Shape of Your Absence #2
Dr. Manning lets the silence stretch for a moment before she asks the question neither of us were ready for.
“And what about the future?” she says carefully. “Have you two discussed what your relationship looks like long term? Structurally.”
I know what she means before she clarifies.
“Do you see yourselves remaining monogamous to each other? Or does non-monogamy still feel like part of your identity?”
Zaria’s fingers tense slightly in mine.
I exhale slowly. “We haven’t talked about it,” I admit.
“That’s not entirely true,” Zaria says softly. “We’ve avoided talking about it.”
Dr. Manning nods. “Avoidance is still communication.”
The word avoidance sits heavy on me because it’s how I handled so many of the problems in my life until recently.
“We were a triad,” I say plainly. “That was our normal.”
“And now?” she asks.
I hesitate. “I don’t know what now is.”
Zaria swallows.
“Even having this conversation feels like we’re doing something wrong,” she admits. “Like we’re looking to replace her.”
I nod immediately. “Yeah. It does.”
Dr. Manning studies us closely.
“What specifically feels like betrayal?” she asks.
“The idea of adding someone else,” Zaria says, voice tight. “It feels like erasing her.”
“It feels like saying what we had wasn’t enough,” I add.
“And was it?” Dr. Manning asks gently.
“Yes,” we both say at the same time.
“It was perfect but short lived,” Zaria adds.
Silence settles.
“Then adding someone in the future,” she continues, “wouldn’t erase Lena. It would reflect who you are as individuals and as a couple.”
Zaria looks down at our joined hands.
“I don’t even know if I want that,” she says honestly. “Not right now. The thought of someone else touching what we built… it makes my chest hurt.”
I nod.
“I’m not closed off to the idea in theory,” I say slowly. “But in reality? It feels too soon. Too complicated.”
Dr. Manning tilts her head. “Is it a point of contention between you?”
Zaria shakes her head. “No.”
“We’re aligned,” I say. “It just feels like we have other things we can deal with before making that a focal point.”
“Good,” Dr. Manning replies. “Alignment matters more than certainty.”
She leans forward slightly.
“Let me offer something practical. You’re both grieving. You’re rebuilding closeness. Introducing a new dynamic while you’re still stabilizing would likely amplify insecurity.”
Zaria nods faintly.
“So instead of asking whether you should add someone,” Dr. Manning continues, “why not focus on discovering what your new normal looks like as two?”
I agree with Dr. Manning. We haven’t even figured out us yet.
“You once had closeness,” she says. “You once had romance that felt natural. Reestablish that first. Strengthen your foundation. Then, months or years from now, if the idea of expanding feels fluid in the progression of your relationship rather than reactive, you can revisit it.”
Zaria squeezes my hand.
“I don’t want to use someone else as a bandage,” she says quietly.
“And I don’t want to rush into something out of fear of losing who we were,” I add.
Dr. Manning nods approvingly.
“Then your work is clear. Feel your grief. Rebuild your intimacy. Create a relationship that exists because you choose each other — not because you’re trying to recreate what you had.”
The air feels lighter somehow. Less pressured.
Zaria looks at me carefully. “We don’t need to decide anything today,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “We don’t.”
Today the future doesn’t feel like a cliff. It feels like something we can walk toward together.
Dr. Manning studies us for a moment longer, then folds her hands neatly in her lap.
“How’s the romance?” she asks gently. “And the intimacy?”
Zaria exhales first.
“Strained,” she admits.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“In what way?” Dr. Manning presses.
“We’re careful,” I say. “Too careful.”
Zaria glances at me. “It’s like we’re afraid to cross a line that doesn’t exist.”
Dr. Manning tilts her head. “Explain.”
“We don’t initiate the way we used to,” Zaria says quietly. “If we kiss too long, it feels like we’re sneaking doing something we shouldn’t. If we laugh too loud, it feels wrong. If we touch…” She trails off.
“It feels like someone’s missing,” I finish.
Dr. Manning nods thoughtfully. “Or that you’re censoring your joy.”
Today Dr. Manning is calling us to the carpet at every turn.
Censoring.
“I don’t want it to look like we’re moving on,” I admit.
“Intimacy isn’t replacement,” Dr. Manning says calmly. “It’s continuation.”
Zaria frowns slightly. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Because your nervous systems are still associating pleasure with guilt,” she explains. “You’re in a trauma loop. Grief tells you that suffering equals loyalty.”
Silence and stillness hold the room hostage.
“That’s… accurate,” I admit.
Dr. Manning leans forward slightly.
“Let me ask you something. When you hold back from each other, does it honor Lena?”
Zaria’s eyes soften. “No.”
“Or does it stall the love she encouraged?”
With each inquiry from Dr. Manning, we realizing we’re sabotaging the love Lena wanted for us.
I rub the back of my neck. “She told us not to let her death be in vain.”
“Then don’t,” Dr. Manning replies simply.
Zaria shifts closer to me without realizing it and I pull her close to me not able to handle her feeling so far from even as she sits next to me.
“How do we move forward?” she asks.
Dr. Manning smiles faintly. “You work on your intimacy without guilt involved.”
“How?” I ask.
“Start small. Scheduled connection that isn’t about sex. Touch without expectation. Date nights where you talk about Lena openly instead of avoiding her name.”
Zaria nods slowly.
“And when it comes to physical intimacy,” Dr. Manning continues, “remove performance. No pressure to recreate what you had before. Focus on curiosity. On what this version of your relationship feels like.”
I glance at Zaria.
“We haven’t been curious,” I admit. “We’ve been guarded.”
“Guarded is grief’s armor,” Dr. Manning says. “But armor doesn’t allow closeness.”
Zaria’s fingers brush mine this time. Light. Tentative.
“And therapy,” Dr. Manning adds firmly. “Weekly. Together for now. Separately if needed. You don’t white-knuckle your way through love after loss.”
I huff softly. “You’re not letting us off easy.”
She smiles. “No one ever built a healthy relationship by avoiding discomfort.”
Zaria looks at me then, really looks at me.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she says quietly.
“You’re not going to,” I answer immediately.
Dr. Manning nods once.
“Then stop grieving separately,” she says. “Mourn her together. Love each other purposefully and understand that growing closer now doesn’t diminish what you had. It proves it mattered.”
The room feels different. The grief is still heavy but less suffocating.
Zaria’s hand settles fully into mine this time.
After we leave Dr. Manning’s office, I’m more hopeful about our future.
I don’t feel like the love of my life is slipping through my hands again.
It feels like we can heal and be whole with time and patience.
We don’t say much when we leave Dr. Manning’s office. The energy between us is different this time. The silence isn’t defensive. It’s thoughtful. Zaria’s hand stays in mine all the way to the car and I don’t let go.
Olive & Oak is dark when we pull up. Not closed for the night dark. Intentionally dark.
Zaria frowns slightly. “It’s Wednesday. Why is it—”
Before she can finish, the doors open. Knox steps out with that signature half-grin.
“Well damn,” he says, looking between us. “Y’all finally decided to show up, I thought y’all said fuck my establishment.”
I chuckle.
Zaria blinks. “Is the restaurant… closed?”
“For you?” Knox gestures inside. “Yeah.”
Her eyes widen as we walk in. The entire dining room is candlelit. No other guests. Soft instrumental jazz humming through the speakers. The table in the center is set with fresh white linen and deep green napkins folded perfectly.
“This is… just for us?” she asks quietly.
I nod.
She turns toward me slowly. “You did this?”
“I wanted to get some alone time with you,” I say lightly. “Be intentional about connecting.”
Her hand tightens around mine.
Knox claps once. “Alright, y’all sit down before I get emotional in my own establishment.”
We sit. The first course arrives almost immediately.
Knox sits the beautifully plated dish in front of us.
“What we have tonight is a roasted beet & burrata salad. Enjoy.
Zaria closes her eyes after the first bite.
“I forgot what it feels like to enjoy something without bracing,” she murmurs.
I watch her carefully.
“You don’t have to brace tonight.”
She meets my gaze.
“Okay.”
We make small talk as Knox brings out the next dish.
“Your man told me you love a good lobster ravioli. What we have here is lobster ravioli in brown butter sage sauce,” he says as he pours a crisp white wine and lingers just long enough to make sure we’re eating before disappearing into the kitchen.
We talk. Not about hospital rooms. Not about what-ifs. About her program for unhoused trans youth. About expanding Maison Noire’s next product line. About travel. It feels strange and good to not let grief be the only thing binding us in this moment.
Knox is back with a perfect coffee-rubbed filet mignon. It’s perfectly paired over garlic mashed potatoes with roasted asparagus and a red wine reduction.
Zaria glances at me over her wine glass. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yes,” I say simply. “I did.”
She studies me. “Why?”
“For us,” I answer.
Silence settles between us but not uncomfortably. More like she’s satisfied with my answer.
I clear my throat. “The gala’s in three weeks.”
Her expression softens immediately. The sickle cell benefit gala. Lena’s name is on the program this year.
“She would’ve hated the attention,” Zaria says softly.
“While loving the impact,” I reply.
She nods slowly. I reach across the table and take her hand.