Don't make this my fault

I missed you today.
Oh, sorry. You looked busy, so I thought I’d catch you later.
You seem to be slipping out of my life.
Was I ever in your life?
You were in my head.
I reached out to squeeze her hand, and she dissolved into my arms. I held her close and focused on the sensation of her warmth against my body.
I’m afraid of leaving you, I said.
She looked up, her eyes pleading. Why?
I’m afraid of depending on you so heavily that I won’t be able to do this without you. I’m afraid that I’m there already. You are in my head and my heart, and I am afraid of losing that. Of losing you.
I was afraid that you had fallen out of love with me, she said, avoiding my eyes again. I thought you were moving on with your life, and I was being left behind.
I don’t want to leave you behind, I replied, stroking her hair, but I can’t take you with me either, if you don’t want to go.
She pulled away abruptly, and walked over to the window, pushing it open slightly, and struggling with the weight. The noisy street outside engulfed us, and swallowed up her words. Don’t make this my fault.
I wanted to touch her again, to reassure her, but the words forming in my throat felt empty.
I don’t know what to do, I said. I wanted to sink to the floor, but the melodrama of the action stopped me.
She turned to look at me again. Neither do I.
I walked up to her, pulled her to me and kissed her deeply. Then I turned and left without looking at her again.