Something shifts in his expression. I swallow loudly. Because my heart is beating too fast now. Because I’m already in too deep to stop. “You make everything…louder,” I say, searching for the right words and hating that they don’t come easily. “In a way that should be overwhelming.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. “You don’t let me hide,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “You don’t let me pretend I don’t feel things when I clearly do. And I used to hate that.”
Used to.
The word lingers between us.
His eyes soften. “I don’t anymore,” I admit.
I look at him properly now. Not the way I usually do—quick glances, guarded, ready to look away if it gets too much.
No.
This time I hold it.
“I don’t know how to say this the way you do,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t have…those words.”
His expression shifts slightly, something careful settling in.
Like he’s afraid to hope for something he doesn’t want to assume.
“I don’t think I ever will,” I add, because that matters too. Because I don’t want him expecting something I might not be able to give the way he does.
He shakes his head slightly. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” I cut him off because I need to say this my way. “I just…” I exhale, my fingers curling slightly against my palm before I force them to relax. “I think about you all the time,” I say.
His breath stills. “And it’s not annoying anymore,” I add, a small, almost helpless huff of a laugh escaping me. “Which is concerning.”
That earns me the faintest smile. I hate how much that helps. “I look for you,” I continue. “Even when I don’t need to.”
My voice dips. “And when something happens—good or bad—you’re the first person I want to tell.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine.
Not for a second.
“And when you’re not around…” I hesitate, then push through it anyway. “It feels wrong.”
There’s no taking that back. No softening it. No pretending I didn’t just say that. My heart is pounding now. But I don’t stop. “Which is…inconvenient,” I mutter.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. But there’s something in his eyes now. Something deeper. “I don’t like depending on people,” I say softly. “I don’t like needing them…But I think I need you.”
The words settle between us. I hold his gaze. “So…if this is what it is,” I finish, my voice quieter now but steadier than before, “then I think…”
I take a breath.
And let it out.
“I think I love you not because you showed up for me.” The words come out steadier than I expect. His expression shifts, just slightly. Not surprise. Not confusion. Just…attention.
“I don’t love you because you take care of me,” I continue, my voice quieter now but not breaking. “Or because you make things easier. Or because you…stayed when I made it difficult.”
I pause, searching for the right words—not perfect ones, just honest ones.
“I love you because it’s you.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes. Something that looks like it hit deeper than he expected.
