Left Unsaid
You never said it.
Not openly, at least. Oh, it was there - in the way you'd look at me, smile at me, in the way we'd say goodnight - in the way we'd curl up together in sleep, the way we'd share pleasure and passion, the way we'd laugh and talk for hours - it was always there.
I never doubted it, you understand. It wasn't that I needed the affirmation or reassurance. I didn't need to hear you say it to know it was true, and so I never asked, never pushed, never questioned.
But I always hoped you would. Because I wanted to hear it. And because it bothered me - only a little bit, easily ignored - it bothered me that I didn't understand why you wouldn't say it.
I did, once or twice. Thrown into idle conversation, or meaning it with all my soul in the dark of night, and you'd smile, or kiss me, or say my name.
But you never said it.
Not openly, at least.
I heard it once, from your lips. You thought I was asleep. You were running your fingers through my hair, lying beside me in friendly-passionate-contented silence, in that part of the night reserved for loneliness or love. You whispered it as if the words might shatter you, as if they terrified you, and I all but held my breath for fear you'd realise I was awake.
I remember the sound of it, the way your voice wavered around the words. You never knew how much I longed to hear it again. How much I wanted it, not as a stolen moment that you never intended me to know about, but just to see you look at me - look into my eyes - and say it.
You never said it.
Now it's so long ago, I sometimes wonder if we ever really lay like that in darkness, or if I dreamed it. You have changed so much - should I be surprised? - torture and darkness have forever banished the man you used to be. I see it in your eyes, the lines on your face, the ache in your voice.
I don't know you any more, and yet all I want in all the world is the chance to get to know you again. If you can forgive me. If I have forgiven you.
I've had years to think about it, about those words you never said, and I still want to hear them. They lingered in my ears even when everything else seemed to have faded away. Maybe it's gone forever and we'll never be like we once were.
But I want - so much - just to hear you say you love me.
What is it about the word that scares you, Remus?
You never said it.
Not openly, at least. Oh, it was there - in the way you'd look at me, smile at me, in the way we'd say goodnight - in the way we'd curl up together in sleep, the way we'd share pleasure and passion, the way we'd laugh and talk for hours - it was always there.
I never doubted it, you understand. It wasn't that I needed the affirmation or reassurance. I didn't need to hear you say it to know it was true, and so I never asked, never pushed, never questioned.
But I always hoped you would. Because I wanted to hear it. And because it bothered me - only a little bit, easily ignored - it bothered me that I didn't understand why you wouldn't say it.
I did, once or twice. Thrown into idle conversation, or meaning it with all my soul in the dark of night, and you'd smile, or kiss me, or say my name.
But you never said it.
Not openly, at least.
I heard it once, from your lips. You thought I was asleep. You were running your fingers through my hair, lying beside me in friendly-passionate-contented silence, in that part of the night reserved for loneliness or love. You whispered it as if the words might shatter you, as if they terrified you, and I all but held my breath for fear you'd realise I was awake.
I remember the sound of it, the way your voice wavered around the words. You never knew how much I longed to hear it again. How much I wanted it, not as a stolen moment that you never intended me to know about, but just to see you look at me - look into my eyes - and say it.
You never said it.
Now it's so long ago, I sometimes wonder if we ever really lay like that in darkness, or if I dreamed it. You have changed so much - should I be surprised? - torture and darkness have forever banished the man you used to be. I see it in your eyes, the lines on your face, the ache in your voice.
I don't know you any more, and yet all I want in all the world is the chance to get to know you again. If you can forgive me. If I have forgiven you.
I've had years to think about it, about those words you never said, and I still want to hear them. They lingered in my ears even when everything else seemed to have faded away. Maybe it's gone forever and we'll never be like we once were.
But I want - so much - just to hear you say you love me.
What is it about the word that scares you, Remus?