"Do you think Cameron is in love with House?" He sighs. You look at him and wonder if you should tell him the truth and swing the chisel one last time, shattering his already cracking heart. His face stops you. The worry engraved, transcribed, the pain obvious, palpable. You can't tell him the truth. And you're not even sure it is the truth. You hope it's not.
"That's a ridiculous question. Of course not, Chase. Cameron is in love with you." You expect to see relief paint his face. Instead the color is still consternation, his brain ticking behind a face of strained concentration and internal war. What is he so troubled about? Cameron is in love with him. At least you think she is. You hope she is.
"Are you in love with House?" He asks after moments of disquieting silence. You wonder if you should chance stealing breath, nervous because you don't want to confirm, but needy because his question robbed your lungs of their air. Of course you're not. In love with House? You've never heard anything so preposterous. It's inconceivable, you tell yourself, you scream to yourself, hoping that an increase in volume will lead to an increase in believability.
"That, is an even more ridiculous question." You breathe out, afraid to say anymore. Does he know? Does he suspect? Why should he? It's the truth. The question is ridiculous. Of course you are. You've loved House for fifteen years. And you've been trying for fifteen years to convince yourself otherwise. So why admit it now? Why after years of denial should you accept a truth unbelievable? Because it is truth. Because you do love him. Because it is believable. Because it is undeniable.