I smile. I grin so fucking big, because what else am I supposed to do?
I can't tell him now, I can't. I'll keep up this facade of happiness for as long as possible, till I break - or whatever.
It's not whatever, I know it isn't, and I know I should talk to him, talk to someone, but i can't bring myself to do it.
If I'm being honest, the hardest part wouldn't even be to tell him. It's starting a conversation about it. It's to interrupt in the middle of dinner and just spill it all out, that's what I can't do.
Part of me aches to let him know - I really do. But then another part of me wants to keep the pain in this tiny little box. Not disrupt it. Not think about it. Not talk about it. Just tuck it away next to all the "important papers", into that drawer we never open anyways, and forget about it.
I know it's impossible, I know it'll come creeping up on me - slowly - begging to be let out and even if I don't, it'll find ways. Tucking it away won't help, rather it'll probably cause even bigger problems. But I physically can't bear to see the pain in his eyes when I tell him, I can barely bear my own pain. So I ignore.
I tuck and I close and I ignore.
For as long as the box will let me.
So now, during dinner at this way too fancy restaurant, eating a course I can't pronounce, when Harry asks me if I would like to go on a vacation - just the two of us - I smile, I grin so fucking big, because what else am I supposed to do?
