There are things that can only be said in the darkness. There’s something about the suffocating pitch of deep navy blue that makes words unsaid spill from your lips, unstoppable and irrepressible. And in this precise moment, I hated the fact that I was quite predisposed to this trait. I pressed my face against the window, willing myself to somehow melt into the flickering pane of glass and disappear forever. But instead, my eyes followed the never ending line of white that cut sharply like a knife through the glistening black highway. I closed my eyes as nausea rose up from deep in my stomach, cursing my uncanny ability to remember the exact details of every moment.
“I love you.”
“You…what?”
“Um, nothing. I didn’t say anything. Yep, definitely didn’t.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Say it again.”
I sighed heavily, squeezing my eyelids tightly against my burning eyes. How badly I wished that I could go back in time, so that I could trap my deep, dark secret in my lips and force it back down my throat. His eyes flicked to my face. My eyes were still closed, but I could feel his gaze, a shard of glass digging into my cheekbone.
“Iris,” my name slipped off of his tongue like a sigh, so quiet it almost blended in with the dull humming of the car’s wheels running along the pavement. I shook my head quickly, my nose grazing the frosty glass of the window, turning pink under the ochre streetlights. “Let’s talk about this.” My eyes snapped open at that, my chest tightening, twisting against my spine. His eyes were bright against my face. Too bright for this night, too bright for the stars, too bright for the moon. Eyes that made me pray to any god that was out there that no one would ever hurt eyes like those. But here I was, dangling at the precipice, so close to delivering those fatal cuts.
“What’s there to talk about? I said something that I regret, I wish I hadn’t, so let’s just leave it.”
“I don’t want to leave it, you said it for a reason, so tell me the truth.”
“Just leave it alone!” My voice, cracking against the foggy windows and the expanse of highway ahead. Uncomfortably loud in the silent, heavy night. But the silence that comes afterwards is almost louder. He glances down at his hands, long, spindly fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel of the car, knuckles whitening and two angry roses of red blooming across his cheeks.
“If you didn’t mean it, why did you say it? I get that you can’t say it anymore. So why now?” The words aren’t judgmental, not angry anymore. Simply curious. And slightly melancholy. A tone that made me panicky, sticky palms and short breaths. Like something was ending. This couldn’t happen, I wouldn’t let it. I was slipping off of the precipice, fingertips grazing the edge and legs swinging, ready to fall–. Climb back up. Hurry.
“I didn’t…uh, I didn’t say I didn’t mean it.” Off the precipice, on shaky, unfamiliar ground. The panicky feeling was gone, but replacing the herd of buffalos was a swarm of angry, anxious butterflies, wings grazing my stomach, my heart, my throat. A semi roared its way past our car, kicking up the dusty desert and causing the car to shiver in the cold of the night. The dawn seemed hesitant to come, waiting patiently for my midnight confession to be fully realized. I stared straight ahead, my eyes flicking alongside the pattern of the yellow highway lines. I watched the road disappear beneath us until I couldn’t bear it anymore. A gust of wind burst angrily from my throat. Anger not directed towards him, but towards myself. I was such a hypocrite. Here I was, making the kind of convoluted grand romantic gesture you see on movie screens and scoff at, all the while living my life as undramatically as possible. No wonder Will didn’t understand. There was nothing to understand. I had gotten myself into the type of mess I promised I never would.
We had a good relationship. Comfortable. I insisted on it as soon as we met, quashing the butterflies in my stomach with promises of “just casual” and “no drama” and “easy”. He had loved me then. Fire clashed with the chocolate in his eyes, flowers in his hands and kisses on his lips. Met time and time again with my pushing hands, my “thank you, but it’s not like that”. A man can only take so much rejection before he falls, easily almost, into the mold he was meant for. I thought we had an understanding. But how ironic that, in the end, much too late, I was the one to confess. I had worked so hard to force his love for me into a tiny box that fit into my life that I had neglected to realize that the other boxes and I had created for myself were decomposing, ripping apart at the seams.
It had been too long, I realized suddenly, the thought breaking through the haze of the other confused and disjointed thoughts practically sprinting through my mind. He had been silent for almost five minutes while my mind went into overdrive against my wishes.
“…Will?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to say anything?”
“Yes.”
That shut me up. I rested my hand on my thigh, fingers drumming against its clenched muscles. I didn’t want to rush him, but I was getting impatient. What was I waiting for? He didn’t love me back, that much was obvious. But maybe I was waiting for a confession less dramatic. Maybe I was waiting for him to tell me that he cared deeply about me. No. I would’t be satisfied with something so clinical and offhand.
“Iris?” My stomach seemed to drop through my body, slicing through the car motor and sinking deep into the desert.
“Yes?”
“I love you too.”
And suddenly every stolen moment and gentle kiss and longing glance that had been kept curled tightly around my heart came undone, and unfurled, spreading warmth from my fingertips to my toes.
– J.S.