Secret

He was right about one thing...The more you feel it, the harder it is to say...

There had been so many times she had come perilously close. There were times she wanted to say those words so badly, had to, needed to, that she would release them in childish ways. Would murmur them inaudibly into his chest, whisper them to him as he slept.

Each time taking care there was no way he could hear them. These words, and how they related to him, felt precious, fragile, slippery. They were hers but also more than her.

They were never quite in her grasp.

She liked to imagine them, these words, what they would look like. She thought of them as if in a cartoon speech bubble, or on a billboard, or balloon tied to a string she could suddenly release into the heavens or.. or. or maybe more solid, more concrete, heavier, made up of iron letters cast aside from an ancient printing press.

And the more she visualised them, the more tactile they seemed, the more inviting they seemed, the less she was afraid. But still, she was uncertain, unsure if she could ever say them. Of the consequences of saying them. Of whether it was a better idea perhaps, to never say them at all.