Being there

Something in me wanted to run away, if only for a moment. But of course I didn't. I couldn't have, no matter how suffocating my own helplessness was making me feel. I was irritated, mostly at my inability to help. Not at him. I was angry, also mostly at the events that brought him to me in this state. Not at him. I wanted to pity him, maybe, but couldn't get myself to.
At my wits' end, I asked, meekly, what my heart wanted to know, "How can I help?"

He looked at me with more questions than answers in his silent eyes, and then shut them. He probably didn't have any response, or maybe, I hadn't understood his response.

For sure, I didn't understand his problem either. There was no reason I could comprehend why this should be like this. It didn't make a lot of sense, and seeing him in misery, without knowing how to make it better for him, made me angrier. I wanted to find something or someone to blame, including myself, but it didn't seem to work. I wanted to walk away and hope everything would become magically alright by the time I returned.

Lost, I said, I'm there for you, and left- trying to figure out for myself what being there for him meant.