The more I learn about him, the worse I feel keeping everything to myself. He’s not afraid of letting me in, or if he is, he can push past it gracefully. His open arms dull my weak smile. I can’t keep up, I realize. I’m petrified at the thought – it’s too early to lose him – but even fear can’t make the words come.
I sit back and hope that I’m not shutting him down, locking him out, but I know that I’m far from welcoming. I know that I could do better, try harder, share more. But knowing and doing are separate playing fields.
He tells me that I’m hard to read. I smile to myself, thinking if he only knew. At the same time, I shudder knowing that he wants in. He wants in, and as much as I’d like to, I can’t open up for him. I can’t. There’s too much at stake, too much to risk. All I can do is toss him bread crumbs, aching for him to follow along. So far, so good, but it’s only a matter of time before someone else tosses him something substantial and I’m left in the dust.
He says it’s too soon for me to worry about him, that I don’t know him well enough yet. Yet. I focus on that. Further proof that he wants to know more, wants to share more, wants to evolve into something better and more whole. And that’s what I want, too. That’s all I want.
So I practice my confession. I tell it to my steering wheel, to uneaten dinners, to the clouds at night. I tell them all how good it could be, how electric our potential is. I fall asleep mumbling about everything I still need to say to him. I wake up counting down the days until my next chance.
There is a time and place for secrets, but not with him; they’ll only feed the fear. I’m ready to lose the walls I’ve built, only because there’s half a chance that he wants this too.