Everything I never Said

Falling

Sam arrived at Tasha's house just before five.

I was sitting on the living-room floor, helping Tasha sort through some old photographs, when I heard his voice coming from the doorway.

"Why does this house always look like a market?"

"Because you keep coming here!" Tasha shouted from the kitchen.

"Then stop inviting me."

"I didn't invite you today!"

"Exactly. I came because I missed your beautiful face."

"Get out!"

He laughed.

And I smiled before I could stop myself.

That was another thing about Sam. His voice could make me smile even when I had no idea what he was saying.

He walked into the living room a moment later, carrying a nylon bag containing snacks and a bottle of soft drink.

His eyes landed on me.

For a second, neither of us said anything.

Then he smiled.

"Hey, stranger."

I raised an eyebrow. "Stranger?"

"You've been avoiding me."

I looked at him in surprise.

"Since when?"

"Since yesterday."

I blinked.

We had spoken the previous evening. He had sent me a message asking what I was doing, and we had exchanged a few texts before he disappeared without explanation.

I had told myself it didn't matter.

I had even put my phone away and read a book.

Well, I had attempted to read a book. I had spent most of the time checking whether he was online.

But that was beside the point.

"You disappeared first," I reminded him.

"I got busy."

"And I was supposed to do what? Wait by my phone?"

He tilted his head.

"I didn't say that."

"Good."

"You're angry."

"I'm not."

He smiled slowly.

"You're definitely angry."

I returned my attention to the photographs.

"You're imagining things."

He lowered himself onto the floor beside me.

Too close.

Not close enough for anyone else to consider it unusual, but close enough for me to become painfully aware of the space between our shoulders.

"Okay," he said. "I'll leave you alone."

"Thank you."

He lasted approximately twelve seconds.

"What are you looking at?"

I sighed.

"Photographs, Sam. What else would I be looking at?"

"Your future husband."

I turned to him so quickly that he started laughing.

"You're so stupid!"

"Maybe."

He was still laughing when Tasha returned with a bowl of popcorn.

She looked between us.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," I said immediately.

"Isabelle is looking for her future husband in the photographs," Sam answered.

Tasha threw a piece of popcorn at him.

I wanted the floor to open beneath me.

Instead, I picked up a cushion and hit him with it.

He caught the cushion before I could hit him again.

For one ridiculous second, we were both holding it.

His fingers brushed mine.

It was nothing.

A simple touch.

An accidental meeting of skin.

But I felt it all the way to my chest.

His laughter faded slightly as he looked at me.

I couldn't read his expression.

That was the problem with Sam. Sometimes, he looked at me as though there was something he wanted to say, something sitting at the edge of his tongue that he couldn't quite bring himself to release.

And every time it happened, I wondered whether I was imagining it.

"You're staring," he murmured.

I released the cushion.

"So are you."

He smiled.

"Fair enough."

Then he looked away.

Just like that.

And I was left holding a feeling I had nowhere to put.

Later that evening, Tasha went upstairs to answer a call, leaving Sam and me alone in the living room.

I should have gone with her.

I should have found an excuse to check something in my bag, gone to the kitchen for water, or pretended I had somewhere important to be.

Instead, I stayed.

Sam was scrolling through his phone while I pretended to be interested in the television.

Neither of us spoke for several minutes.

Then he asked, "Can I ask you something?"

My stomach tightened.

"Depends."

"Why do you always act like you don't care?"

I turned towards him.

"What?"

He put his phone down.

"You heard me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

I laughed, but the sound came out wrong.

"Sam, I'm not acting like anything."

He studied me for a moment.

"You do this thing."

"What thing?"

"Whenever something bothers you, you pretend it doesn't. Whenever someone asks if you're okay, you say yes. Even when you're clearly not."

My fingers tightened around the edge of the cushion.

I hated conversations like this.

Not because I didn't have anything to say, but because there was always too much to say.

How could I explain that I had learned early that being upset didn't necessarily mean someone would comfort me?

How could I tell him that sometimes, when I tried to explain my feelings, I couldn't find the right words, and by the time I found them, I had already convinced myself that keeping quiet was easier?

How could I explain that I was afraid of being misunderstood, but even more afraid of being understood and still not being loved properly?

So I did what I always did.

I shrugged.

"That's just how I am."

He didn't look convinced.

"Doesn't it get tiring?"

I looked at him.

For a moment, the question sat between us, simple and devastating.

Doesn't it get tiring?

Yes.

It got tiring waking up every day and deciding which parts of myself were safe to show people.

It got tiring being the girl everyone described as quiet, reserved, or difficult to understand when nobody had ever made a real effort to understand her.

It got tiring watching other people receive comfort so naturally while I struggled to ask for the smallest amount of it.

It got tiring pretending that I preferred being alone when, sometimes, I just wanted someone to notice that I had gone quiet for longer than usual.

But I couldn't tell him any of that.

Not yet.

"Sometimes," I admitted.

Sam nodded slowly.

He didn't laugh.

He didn't tell me to stop overthinking.

He didn't ask me to explain myself immediately.

He simply said, "You know you can talk to me, right?"

I looked down at my hands.

There it was again.

That dangerous little thing called hope.

"I know."

"Do you?"

I swallowed.

"Yes, Sam."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "You don't have to tell me everything. Just don't feel like you have to pretend with me all the time."

I wanted to ask him why.

Why did he care?

Why was he paying attention?

Why did he notice things that even people who had known me for years sometimes overlooked?

And, perhaps most importantly, why did he make me want to believe him?

Instead, I managed a small smile.

"You're becoming too serious."

He chuckled.

"There she is."

"Who?"

"The girl who changes the subject whenever a conversation gets too real."

I pushed his shoulder.

"Shut up."

He laughed, and the tension eased.

But something had changed.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that could be explained to someone else.

It was simply that, for the first time, I had allowed a little piece of myself to exist in front of him without immediately hiding it.

And he hadn't run away.

I didn't know what that meant.

I only knew that it mattered.