Choice

You sit facing me, a questioning ghost of a smile on your lips. You don't know why I suddenly asked you to be quiet for a while, to give me time to say what I want.

But you suspect you know, and that explains the slight furrow in your brow, the short breaths you are taking. We both know that the next five minutes will change everything.

In five minutes, words that I speak will be more than just gasps of air squeezed through my vocal chords, tempered by my tongue. They will tell you what I've been keeping secret in my mind. They will invite you to partake of my innermost thoughts.

But here I am, looking at you, thinking furiously. If I simply laughed now and looked away, we would definitely still stay friends, for a long while more. That weighs heavily on my mind, but I'm distracted, distracted by the way your hair is tied back, distracted by the shimmering reflection of myself in your eyes, distracted by... you.

I'm considering where we'll go from here. We would forge ahead, candles burning twice as brightly for our union, blazing a trail of potent memories and content laughter. Our mutual understanding alone would spill vibrant dashes of colour across our days, and even the little things would suddenly seem worth doing.

We would plumb depths of affection previously unknown to either of us. If ever the darkness that is ahead seems overbearing, in the tangle that is our hands clasping we would feel our fingers squeeze reassuringly, a silent commitment to braving this together.

That seems… tempting. I open my mouth, and begin to speak.

But! But, spectres from the past reveal themselves from the shadows, and in a cacophony of shrill warnings they bid me stay my confession. And I suddenly recall the other possibility, the other outcome. We might one day part, and we would disintegrate like a spider’s web yielding to a vengeful duster.

Paralyzed, floundering without the support of the other, we would wail and rage against things we could not control. Our bountiful memories would acquire a tint of murderous acidity, our previous laughter echoing hollowly. In the Eden garden of our understanding, there would sprout weeds of doubt, of deceit, of decay.

That seems… mildly unpleasant. My words die in my throat, a guttural sound that could mean anything.

Yet I look at you, and I know my heart if not my mind is made up. No bigger fool would there be if I gave up now, before we even started. Even if later I should despair in an endless, boiling pool of sorrow, I would not fault the me that is looking into your eyes now.

I want those precious days, weeks, months of happiness with you, very, very badly.

I smile, and then I try to speak again.