Sometimes I just really want to tell you.

There's so many reasons why I shouldn't, why I can't, and yet they all seem to disappear when you smile at me. That smile - there's something about it that makes me think you already know but maybe that's just wishful thinking.

It would be so much easier, y'know? I wouldn't have to tell you then, and I wouldn't get a chance to mess everything up. Because, trust me, somehow I will, because that's what I do.

Give me all the fucking equations in the textbook and I'll try my best but with something like this, it's not that simple. God, there could be one dodgy path in the whole map and you'd bet I'd end up going down it. What's wrong with me?

It's not fair on you. You don't deserve it, but I can't help it. This isn't something you can stop because it's the right thing to do. I want to try and make it sound somehow right; like it's sexily forbidden or some shit like that but it's just plain disgusting.

Maybe that's another reason not to tell you. Because I'm barely surviving against my own disdain let alone yours. I never want you to look at me the way I feel about myself. I want to keep seeing your smiles and letting myself breathe in the fantasy that they might mean something more.

That's part of the fun of you not knowing. Without a proper reply, I can pretend. I can dream that you smiled the biggest, brightest smile you've ever had and everything was perfect.

I'm such a fucking idiot.

I want to tell you because there's a small chance that all of that could come true. It's small but it's there, and, oh hell, is it tempting. Everything I've ever wanted could be right in my hands and all I would have to do is the say the words.

I… I…

They get stuck in my throat. They won't come out because a part of me is always holding back, always afraid. I'm my own worst enemy. I'm selfish, stupid and in way over my head.

This isn't how everyone says it is, not really. It's meant to be all rainbows and clouds, and cherubs singing, and that feeling of excitement in the pit of your stomach. That's all bullshit. Nah, scratch that. I'll admit sometimes it feels like that, like when you hold me close and I'll forget about everything except the feel of you against me and that faint smell of cigarettes on your skin that's oddly comforting.

I'll listen to you talking, but there'll be times when I'm barely listening to what you're saying - just gazing at the gorgeous curve of your mouth and wanting to kiss the corner of it, just for a second.

I've only just realised this sounds like a confession, a way of me listing all the sinful thoughts I've ever had before I beg for forgiveness and hopefully I'll be back in God's graces. Damn, if only I still believed in him.

He wouldn't like this at all, or so I've been told. This is a sin, an abomination. Somehow, I don't care.

I want to tell you because it feels like I'm lying to you. Almost taking advantage of you in a way. Would you push me away? I wouldn't blame you, I promise.

How the hell can you trust me? How I've earned that miracle I'll never know but I'll cherish it for as long as it lasts. As long as you'll have me.

You know what? I don't think I can handle this anymore. It's killing me to be perfectly honest.

Hell, I just want to tell you I love you, Emma.

When I wrote this, it wasn't intended for SwanQueen, but after reading it again I realise it fits them quite well ;) Imagine this being like a love letter to Emma that Regina could never bring herself to send.