What I didn't say but wanted to.

Last weekend, out of nowhere, sadness compounded and overwhelmed me. As we walked home, to his home, the sadness washed over and turned into anger. In the darkness, on the still ice covered sidewalks, I slowed my gait and let the distance between us increase. He looked back, questioning, I told him I was just being careful not to fall. As we grew nearer to our destination, the urge to get in my car and drive away became hard to resist, partly because I knew he would demand an explanation for my behavior and partly because I wanted him to hurt in the way I was hurting, even if I couldn't come close to explaining the how and the why. Instead, I walked past my car, parked on the dark street. He held open the heavy, creaking front door and we climbed the poorly lit stair case in silence. Once inside, I stared blankly and distantly at anything that wasn't him.

Moments later I climbed between his sheets, making certain not to touch him out of the fear that he would know without me having to tell him. And maybe I wanted that. He prodded, at first gently, then with increasing impatience that he tried to hide. I offered him only denial. I rolled over, taking care to cry in the most silent way possible, sleep only a distant possibility. And as I lay there in the near darkness, moonlight filtering through the blinds, marking all the surfaces of his bedroom with a slanted pattern, I tried to decipher all that I was feeling, navigating the murky depths of the thoughts I try to keep hidden from even myself. Feelings, events, small personal tragedies, all interconnected somehow in the way that only emotion can make sense of, most of which has been left unprocessed, unacknowledged.

In the morning, I left early. I felt empty. I sent him a text message telling him I was sorry. He replied back, saying, I could talk to him if I wanted. I said I was fine, that I'd feel less crazy by Monday. And I did, if only because it's easy enough to find distractions during the week. By Friday I felt better, not because I understood or resolved anything that I had been feeling but because I hadn't had the time to think about it.

And then, there was last night. As soon as I knocked on his front door, I was on edge. It didn't take long for me to get back to the place I was the previous weekend. His roommate set me off on a spiraling path headed nowhere in particular with a comment most likely made in jest but that hit close enough to what I was feeling to provide ample excuse for a breakdown. It didn't take long for him to catch on to what I was happening.

He took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom and sat me on his bed. He looked at me, I looked away. I felt terrified.

"Tell me what's wrong", he insisted.
Quickly, I replied, "nothing", which I intended to mean leave me alone.
Most of my life, this is where this kind of conversation would end. The other person would either pretend to believe me or give up, either because they were scared of what they would hear or because they didn't quite care enough.

It was quiet for a long time. I wasn't willing to give anything up because I was so unsure of what might actually come out of my mouth. I was so afraid of sounding crazy, barely realizing that my behavior already confirmed what I was trying to deny. It scares me because if other people are able to know it, then it must be true and to accept that would compromise the framework of my reality. To acknowledge my life's events gives them license to be real, to define me and I've never been able to accept that.

He broke the silence. "Why do you always do this? Why can't you talk about anything?" For those questions, I had no answer. So instead, I offered it all to him. Only a mere fraction of what I wanted to say managed to make its way out of my mouth but still, I felt an immense relief. I'm not sure if he wholly understood, or if he even wanted to. I'm not sure what my confessions accomplished, whether they'll drive us apart or bring us together and I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell him everything but now he knows my secrets, secrets that no one else has ever known. And it's confusing, part of me feels vulnerable and part feels the burden has been diluted, even though I feel selfish for admitting it.

I don't know what any of it means. I love him, but I'm terrified to tell him that. I can't stand the possibility of rejection or heartbreak but the feeling only deepens and multiplies.