I wanted to tell her that I loved her. How much I appreciate her. I hoped she could see it in my eyes, read my mind or something. Instead, she gave me a strange look.
“What are you looking at?”
My eyes went towards the floor.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
Augustus Waters, what a catch, I thought as I looked at Ansel Elgort’s face stretched across the big screen. His goofy face grew on me as the film went on; the stylist did a nice job highlighting his athletic build. Maybe I had a guy like that once. If youth and perfect circumstances weren’t in the way, they probably would’ve gotten sick of each other. The love would probably last for a while, but. Huh, that’s a shame.
ME: I didn’t mean what I said. I’ve just been really stressed and tired. I’m sorry.
HER: It’s okay. I love you sweetheart.
Clean white sheets. Seeing it made me smile. My bed made like I never left home in the first place. I leaned against the pillow on the wall and hugged my knees. “Do you remember how I was when I was little? Like if I did something wrong or made you feel bad, I’d quickly apologize and things like that?”
“Yes,” she replied with a knowing smile. Her face beginning to show signs of aging, but still beautiful as she always has been.
“I’ve noticed that as I get older, things become hard to say. Things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you,’ ‘love.’ They’re impossible.”
She took to the corner of the bed. “How come?”
“I don’t know… It’s like I open my mouth and nothing comes out. I freeze. The words get stuck in my throat and I can’t get myself to say them.”
“I wonder why?”
She pondered for a moment and then looked at me conclusively. “You’re like me. I can’t say those type of things either.”
“Maybe it’s pride, ego or something.”
I broke a plate in the kitchen. Maybe I was heating something up in the microwave. Maybe I was on my way to the kitchen sink. I remember I was just a little taller than the kitchen table.
The plate had slipped out of my hand and split into a thousand pieces on the floor. My heart leaped out of my chest. I didn’t know where the broom was so I began scraping all the pieces into a corner with my hands. There were a few big pieces that were easy to pick up, but I was too afraid to touch the small pieces again. The clock kept on ticking. Mom and Dad should be back in an hour or so.
There was a calendar on the work desk with an image of a ship. One of those complicated, fancy pirate looking ships that are painstakingly created in bottles. I took a fresh white piece of paper and attempted to draw it. I wanted to put in my best effort in hope that they would understand me. When they came home with their hands full of groceries, I delivered the news. Braced myself for it.
“Are you okay?” Mom made a fuss about it– cleaned the plate up and scolded me, you could’ve hurt yourself. Don’t touch sharp pieces like that next time. Then again, my memory’s not the best to rely on. I tend to remember things a lot more beautiful than they actually are.
“I wish you’d just tell me your Tumblr name,” I said.
“No, no,” she said.
Erika wouldn’t want me to judge her. If she didn’t trust me, I couldn’t blame her.
“I don’t understand how you do it with your blog… Kudos to you for writing and sharing all of that. I couldn’t do it. Have friends– people– read it? (and then see me in person?) Ugh.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I couldn’t stop the grin crawling on my face.
“I always wonder who reads it, you know? Out of my friends and stuff… but I look at it this way,” I said.”It won’t matter when I die.”
I waved my hand in the air. She seemed surprised.
“‘It won’t matter when I die,’ huh?”
Nope. Not at all.
“Can we hold hands like an old Mormon couple in bed?”
“Okay, I guess.”