You can't pronounce some words out, yet you want to. Not because they are untrue, but rather because uttering them exposes you in a way that frightens you.
I was holding a pen tonight, and a blank paper was gazing back at me, urging me to be honest.
I wrote as a result.
Dear Ethan,
I sometimes question whether you are aware of how much room you occupy in my heart. even when I'm annoyed by you. even when I declare that I'm prepared to leave.
Small, inadvertent gestures like bringing home presents for the baby or standing silently behind me while I paint the nursery, as though your presence alone is enough to reassure me, are examples of how you make me feel recognized.
There are also times when I feel completely alienated in your world. when I can't get past your quiet. In order to maintain appearances, I wonder if I'm just another transaction in the Blackwood empire.
I detest how painful it is. that *you* were so hurtful.
I do know, though, that the infant will never feel unloved. I'll see to that. And I secretly, stubbornly, hope that you will also learn to love. not only the kid. Me. Us.
Ethan, I'm afraid. I'm afraid you won't let me in. I'm afraid of how much I already belong to you, though.
And perhaps that's the truth—no matter how much it would be easy to close the door, I can't stop caring.
Regards, Grace
I put the letter into the back of my journal after folding it once and twice. Not to be sent by mail. Not to be read. simply to be outside of my chest.
Because often the things that keep us alive are the words we are unable to say.
I might even have the courage to let him read it one day.
Not tonight, though.