Everything I Never Say ✓

[ twenty ]

Twenty

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I once thought writing letters to you would help, but I don't do that anymore. And all those unsent envelopes, with deep brown wax sealing their openings, sit in the furthest corner of the drawer in my wardrobe, back in my apartment that I share with another girl.

After that, I thought writing for you would help. I have several spiral notebooks with bohemian prints on their covers, half-filled with hastily scribbled prose and neatly written poems.

Until they too weren't enough. I couldn't quite put everything I feel for you into paper, you see. I would write, and write, and write, till my fingertips were numb and my wrists ached and dark blue ink smudges coated the inside of my palms—but there would always be something missing.

I no longer write to you, or for you, but every time I do write, a piece of you finds its way into the spaces between my words.

They say writers leave pieces of themselves in everything they write, and it is true—it is. And the fact that I find traces of you in all my creations speaks volumes.

° ° °

I tell Jules about you, because honestly speaking, keeping it all bottled up within me is a little draining. And whatever liberation my feelings for you permits, I want to grab a hold of it all. And I know, I know that keeping it to myself hinders the full extent of how much all this love can set me free.

She blinks, first. Slowly.

"Oh," she says.

"Yeah, oh," I repeat, my tone and face desperately fighting to remain nonchalant, but tonight I'm a little tired and I just want my best friend to hear me.

"You're making me tear up, woman," she suddenly says.

I blink, completely taken aback.

"What?"

"No, seriously," she blinks rapidly, fanning her face, "I feel really emotional right now."

And I don't doubt her; Jules is one of those sensitive, emotional people with a huge heart.

"So... You're not... You don't think it's — it's stupid? Or, or ridiculous? Or something?" I lift my eyebrows, leaning in towards her and searching her face intently.

Jules shakes her head. "I just wish you didn't think that you had to keep something like this all to yourself for so many years, Debbie."

I smile, unable to speak because my throat is tightening and needles are pricking the back of my eyes.

She wraps her arms around me instead, ironclad and impossibly tight.

° ° °

With Kylie, I'm a little more cautious. I speak in general terms, I don't mention names. I just speak.

"Do you think it's impossible for someone to still be in love with their first love for years and years?" I ask, chewing the back of my pen and shooting a glance at her.

She snorts. "One-sided feelings don't last that long," she tells me. "If the person is still holding on, it's probably that they like the familiarity and just don't want to let go. Or, they're in love with the memory of their first love, and not the person itself, you know?"

No, I don't know. And I certainly don't agree.

"What if that's not the case?" I ask, turning around in my chair to face her. "What if they are genuinely still in love?"