Whispered Secrets
"Don't tell Clare."
I don't know how many times I've said that out loud. If not to myself, then to Adam. Because Clare can't know. I don't think she could handle it. Not now. Not when everything is already such a mess. Not when her parents are divorcing. Not when she thinks her religion is dead.
She trusts me. She trusts me so much it hurts. She knows that I love her. That I'd die for her. I'd kick anyone's ass for her. And I know she loves me. I know because she steals silent glances at me, thinking I don't notice. She tells me secrets, shares her fears, and cries into my shoulders at night. I know her inside and out. She knows me so much more.
When our hands meet, it feels like magic. Everything is gone. The world has stopped. The only one breathing is her and me. We are the only ones that exist. The only ones that matter. When she smiles, I smile. When she laughs, I laugh. When she's crying and broken down, I hold her up and make sure she's better in the morning.
We don't need sex. We don't need kisses. We don't need promises. Our eyes do all the talking. Our smiles do all the trusting. And our small touches show the love. She tells me she loves me every day. Not once have I doubted her.
I can't tell Clare.
I don't think I'd be able to handle her reaction. To watch her face scrunch up with pain. To see her bright blue eyes dim and die. To be the cause of her crying, weeping in agony. She'd hate me. She'd hate me because she loved me. And now I'm putting her through this. She never asked for this. When we kissed that Saturday night, five months ago, in her room when her parents were out; not once did something like this cross her mind. Not once did either of us expect this to be the outcome.
I just found out. Two weeks ago. It was just supposed to be a regular checkup. An ordinary, once in awhile thing. When he broke the news I threw up. I didn't even look for a garbage can or a toilet. I was too shaky to stand.
It's not every day you're told that you're dying.
Yes, you've read right, double check if you need to. I'm dying.
Cancer. Such an ugly word. It's disgusting, and it makes my insides twist and coil. Infected. An outcast. A leper. Dead. Another victim. Another body. Just another statistic.
She'd cry. She'd cry, and hit me, and beg me why. Then she would be so encouraging. Help me through my last days. Be there during chemo. Hold my hand when they shave my hair. She'd suffer. She'd watch me die.
Which is why I can't tell Clare. She'd make a fuss out of everything. She'd be so worried, so exhausted, so lost. It's not fair. Why can't I spend my remaining days happy, with her? Holding her hand. Kissing her soft pink lips. Hear the music of her laugh. Listen to her sugary sweet voice. Watch her eyes light up and sparkle. If I can see that, I'd die a happy man.
So do me a favor.
Don't tell Clare.