"I believe I was a little in love with you."

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"I believe I was a little in love with you" - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

A confession, out of your mouth before your brain caught wind of the notion and ordered a full stop to the words. The temptation is there, immediately after, to bite down on your traitorous tongue. Oh if you could clamp your teeth down and never unhinge your jaw again.

But you don't.

You sit, gaze now averted to save a further wounding of your pride, and wait. There is a sympathetic look waiting for you when you look at him again, you know it.

The sentence lingers in the air, the carefully measured space that exists between two friends. It is a distance carefully calculated, at least on your part, at every interaction - something that is sure to change, now.

Time slips on, and then you hear the catching of his breath - the lightest tsk to indicate his lips are parting and some manner of reply is soon to follow.

"I wish I'd known."

Five words - or four if you forgive the contraction - that force you to shift your eyes to the left and risk looking at him again. One glance at his face is all that is needed to tell you if you need to look away again, or turn to further meet his gaze. Is his reply spoken of kindness, or rooted in returned emotion?

You're surprised by what you find. A thoughtful expression. Perhaps... contemplative. His lower lip is partially tucked, as though he's trying to figure out just how to word his reply. Which, of course, spurs further surprise from you. There could be more to say?

A question that immediately has a million answers. There is the polite decline. There is the soft let down, a friendship that is salvaged through kind words offered. You could, should, save him and you the trouble, but now that you've aired your confession words seem to have left you.

A hazarded smile. A shrug, served by one shoulder lifting in the smallest of motions. These are the things you use in explanation, actions mirrored by the man seated so close, yet so far away. 

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