Containment.

They both brought boxes.

Hers was open.

Not overflowing.
Not chaotic.
Just open enough to show there was something inside.

You could see it had been tended to.
Sorted.
Considered.

When something landed between them, she didn’t throw it back.

She placed it in the box.

“Let me sit with that for a second,” she would say, steady.

Her containment was conscious.
Felt.
Chosen.

It allowed her to remain present.

He had a box too.

His was closed.

Not dramatically.
Just decisively.

When something unsettled him, the lid lowered.

The conversation shifted.
The tone cooled.
The subject moved on.

He did not deny what had happened.
He simply sealed it.

His containment was distance.
Automatic.
Protective.

From the outside, they looked alike.

No raised voices.
No chaos.
No visible rupture.

Both regulated.

But one box stayed on the table.

The other moved further away.

One invited exploration.
The other signalled completion.

Over time, it wasn’t the emotion that separated them.

It was the access.