Piper

You are laughing when Piper catches you stealing the dish towel. You dart around the island as she reaches for it, and flick it aside. She laughs, calling you impossible. You laugh harder. With Piper, you became ridiculous. She loved that. She once told you she liked being the person who could make you forget yourself and act like a kid. You believed her. Until tonight. She stops laughing. “Enough.” Your grin lingers. “What?” “I said enough.” She looks at the towel on the floor. “I can't keep doing this.” You pick it up. “Doing what?” “Everything has to be a game. Every serious conversation, every time I try to talk about something important, you turn it into a joke.” Your stomach tightens. “Piper, I thought you liked that.” “I did.” She looks away. “I've been trying to tell you for months.” “When?” “After my sister's dinner. In the car. Last month when I was upset and you made me laugh, and I asked you not to.” You remember her laughing and thinking you'd fixed it. You took the sound as proof everything was okay. “Why didn't you tell me?” “I did.” She exhales. “You just kept hearing what you wanted to hear.” You stare at her, trying to understand how something she once loved became something she couldn't stand. She folds her arms, then lets them fall. “I think we need to separate for a few months. See what life is like apart from each other.” You stare at her. “Why?” “Because I'm tired. I'm tired of having the same conversation. I'm tired of everything becoming a joke when I'm trying to be serious. I don't want to spend the rest of my life asking you to grow up.” “Piper, I never meant—” “I know.” She cuts you off, more exhausted than angry. “You never mean anything by it.”