What I Cannot Say, I Return in Silence
He brings me small kindnesses—like offerings to a shrine. A cup of coffee the way I like it. A plushies because it reminded him of me. He does not know that each gift, however gentle, presses like a thumb against a bruise I cannot name. He asks for nothing. Not even a name for what we are.
And still I sit here, blooming with guilt.
He does not touch me, not really. We haven’t crossed into skin. But I feel his kindness like hands anyway—gentle, patient, unbearably good. He sends messages just to ask if I slept, if I ate, if the sky outside my window was the same soft grey he saw from his. He gives me the kind of attention that once would’ve undone me. Now, it only makes me tired.
Because I know. I know, even as I laugh with him, even as I thank him for flowers I did not deserve, that I do not want to belong to him.
And worse he does nothing wrong. Nothing I can name. No cruelty to push against. No mistake to justify my disinterest. He is everything I thought I needed, until I stood in front of it and realized I felt nothing in return.
This is not about him. It is the terrible quiet of me.
I think, Why can’t I love him back? Why does goodness dry out in my mouth like sand? Why does the thought of staying feel like surrender, not safety?
I tell myself, Just give it time.
I tell myself, Maybe you’re scared.
I tell myself, Don’t ruin a good thing just because it doesn’t make your heart pound.
But I don’t feel scared. I feel… certain. A dull certainty, like the slow setting of a sun you know you can’t stop.
And yet I stay. I smile. I text back. I lean toward him slightly on sidewalks and say this is nice, as if nice is enough. I rehearse affection like a line in a play, bowing for applause I don’t believe I’ve earned.
There is no label, no promise, no kiss to regret. But still I feel guilty as if every hour I spend beside him is a quiet betrayal of someone who deserves to be chosen freely, not tolerated softly.
He thinks I’m shy. Gentle. Careful.
But I am none of those things.
I am a coward dressed as softness.
I do not want to hurt him.
But staying is hurting me.
And isn’t that still a kind of cruelty?