It used to be really hard for me to express how I feel. I kept a lot locked away; even now, I’m surprised when I go back through old journals and see not only the honest there, but how much I self-edited. There are entire pages crossed out in case I revealed too much.
I’ve changed a lot since then. I want people to know how I feel, not because I want them to hold my hand through every tough spot, but because I’m tired of pretending to be apathetic and distant when I’m not at all. I try to shower my friends and family with love and compliments because they deserve it, dang it, and because I never want them to doubt for a second how I feel.
I’m still working on it. There’s still a part of me that wants to keep everything locked away because opening up makes me vulnerable. I care loudly and genuinely and often, but I can do better.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) From Latin tacenda, future passive participle for “I am silent”
Things left unsaid.
Early in their relationship, she used to chatter, like any moment of silence was a moment for doubt to creep in. If she filled each silence with words, perhaps he wouldn’t notice her faults.
As time went on, the silence lingered. There was comfort there, a knowledge that not everything that was felt needed to be said. A silence could be comfortable and safe and warm.
Somehow, something changed. It wasn’t overt; no decision was made, no action was taken. Conversation dwindled. Fear grew in its absence. Paranoia flourished.
Someone had to speak first, so she did, quietly, then louder.