Same Handwriting, Different Hand

In the coffee shop bathroom stall

someone wrote in careful ballpoint:

he never asked how I was.

Below it, equally careful, someone else's hand:

mine either.

Both looked like confessions, not complaints.

Both looked like they'd been sitting with this

for a long time before finding the courage

to carve it into painted wood.

I sat on that toilet longer than I needed to,

reading the indentations you could feel

with your fingernail if you touched them.

The ballpoint had pressed deep enough

to leave marks on the other side.

I recognized something I've never said out loud,

something I keep folded in my chest

like a secret that isn't really secret,

like something everyone knows but no one names.

He never asked how I was.

Mine either.

And I'm thinking about the second person,

the one who saw the first confession

and didn't write back, didn't argue,

just added their own version of the same truth.

What were they doing in that bathroom?

Were they crying? Were they washing their hands

and then stopped, saw the words, and realized

they weren't alone?

I wanted to add my own line.

I wanted to write: I've never told him

that I needed him to ask.

But I just left it there,

left it for the next person

who might read it and feel

less crazy for thinking

that love sometimes means

someone noticing you need to be noticed.