Telling Him (1)

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" The gentle but serious tone of his voice scared me. "Why did you wait until now? Why not earlier? Lots earlier?" his eyes flashed and his words began to run over and into each other; I could tell the drinks were starting to take effect.

"What did you expect?" I said angrily. "I told you ten years ago, thousands of times before that. What am I supposed to do? Keep telling you?" Tears started to form in the bottom of my eyes, temporarily blinding me; they stung as I tried to hold them back, a tremor breaking through my voice. "I met you when I was in fifth grade and for five years, I liked you; just liked you! That's a long time! Then somehow, I began to love you; I don't even know when. When did you expect me to tell you? All those times starting that we didn't have privacy? Those times when we fought? When our parents or sisters or brothers were around?"

The harsh reality of it was sinking in; I was telling him everything I should have told him, except at the worst possible time—there he was: the night before his ring ceremony, three days away from getting married, and I was admitting that I loved him?

Silence.

"Are you…okay?" I asked timidly, seeing the cloudiness beginning to take over his eyes.

"Yeah," he responded, words beginning to slur together. He closed his eyes and put his fingers to his temples, massaging them to soothe the battle going on in his head to stay alert. I was ten years old when I met this man; he was just a boy then. And look at him now—5'8" with a voice filled with a love for life and passion—the same passion I could see in his chocolate-brown pools that he called eyes—and a physique that would seem frail on anyone else, but complimented the rest of him perfectly. I had gone from friendship to love to almost a marriage proposal. Instead of telling him all of this before, I waited until he was drunk, the night of his bachelor party.

How typically stupid of you; pick the worst possible time to tell him the one thing that could change your life more than anything else ever will.

The edge to his voice jarred me back to reality. "Why?" he whispered as I felt his body begin to sag when I reached for his hand—the same hand that shook mine or was wrapped lightly around my waist time and time again, completely casually. But, instead of it feeling causal like any touch, his touch, how ever slight it was, felt like a current running through me. It would instantly cure any pain of mine—emotional or physical— however small. And after his wedding, what would happen?

You still have a chance, I said to myself.

"I—I—I'm sorry…." I broke off, unable to say anything more. I wanted to reach out and stroke the face that looked like it had come from a cherub . I shook my head, guilt beginning to take over. I wanted to comfort him, tell him it was okay— to get married and to forget about me. But I could not; this was my last chance.

"I wanted to tell you earlier—honest," I inhaled deeply, unable to continue. "The time was never right," of course it was! I told myself. Think about the millions of opportunities, your senior prom, and the nights he took you to clubs, when you went to visit him at home, the times when he stayed at your house, the phone conversations you had shared almost every other week. There were so many opportunities in the past twelve years. The possibility of rejection had always scared me off but not now—somehow, I had overcome it to tell him tonight.

Is it right now? To put myself through hell? I realized that wasn't why I was so scared anymore. There was the possibility of ruining his life.

I started asking—won't this ruin his wedding, even his life? Won't it make him live with the guilt of denying you this for the rest of his life? Is it okay to do this to his fiancée, of all people? She probably loves him as much as you do. The tears broke lose, cascading down my face. Things began to cloud over for me, too, a thin cloud of film seemingly covering my eyes and a thick liquid building up in the back of my mouth, making it difficult to speak.

I waited. No sounds filled the air except for my ragged breathing and his even, careful breathing. I knew it wouldn't be much longer until both of us closed our eyes and forgot about all of this until….until when? We wouldn't remember anything in the morning; the drink we had tonight would disable our memories of tonight and hide them from us forever. I sighed.

I guess its better that he won't remember this in the morning. Maybe I can forget about him, too, after tonight.

I closed my eyes, still waiting for his answer, my face facing his, staring at his face expectantly when I realized he wouldn't say anything more—he was out cold.

What an appropriate climax—the one time I get the guts to tell him, he passes out. Yet, all the times I didn't tell him, he was wide awake, ready to hear it. I groaned, not caring who heard me in the huge apartment.

The last thoughts I had before the already dark apartment faded into oblivion were, He's everything to you—why are you letting him go? A battle began to rage in my mind, trying to figure out why.

It's better for him—he can live in peace and whole-heartedly love his wife forever… Or will he change his mind after tonight?