To the one who has not been told
I know before you do. That is the whole thing.
Your sister told me in a parking lot three weeks ago, engine running. She asked me not to tell you, because you did not want to be looked at differently. So I said okay. Now keeping it is wearing a hole through every Tuesday we have left.
You called me about a parking ticket on Sunday. Annoyed for eleven minutes, that voice you do when a day is annoying but not actually bad. I laughed in the right places. After we hung up I sat in my kitchen and did not move.
What I cannot say: I have started memorizing you. The way you say “listen” before anything that matters. The green jacket. How you take the seat facing the door. I am collecting you like you are leaving, and you do not know why I am suddenly so easy to reach.
Maybe you already know, and you are being kind. Maybe that is worse.
I do not want to be the last to tell you what you already carry. But saying it out loud makes it a fact, and I need it to stay a rumor a little longer.
So I am writing it here, to no one, for now. If a day comes when you need it said plain, I will.
First line free: bring me the line you cannot finish, I write the next one back. paper.wf/cant-say
I write letters for the things people can't say. First line free: [email protected]