The pen felt awkward in his hand. He gripped it so tightly that he feared it might break. He wasn’t good with words, but this task was more important than most. Maybe that made it even worse, more awkward.
She was leaving him. He could feel it. She had begged him for months, perhaps years to love her. To talk to her, to share, to open himself up to her.
He hadn’t done it. Not much, anyway. He didn’t know how to open himself up without breaking apart. He still shuddered with the memories of the last time he had tried to show her, to tell her how he felt. He had broken down. Fallen as far as a human can fall without dying at the bottom. He’d opened up and tried to tell her how he felt, but all that came out were words that meant nothing to her. He could tell that the words weren’t getting through and maybe he’d waited too long. That day he’d literally fallen to his knees and cried out to her, holding her like she was his only hope for survival.
Then he’d shut down again. That was too much, too painful. He couldn’t, no wouldn’t let that happen again. He had to keep it together… but now here they were again. She felt unloved, unwanted, unneeded. She was drifting away again, protecting herself from the heartbreak of being with him when he couldn’t share himself with her.
But he loved her with everything in him. The pen in his hand was leaving a blot on the page. The blank, lined page where he would spill his soul, his every feeling to her. He would make it happen and this time would be different. She would never doubt his love again, because he was ready to share. To tell her all the ways in which he loved her and needed her. The thoughts flitted through his head, all the things he had to say, needed to say… would say to her.
He struggled with his heart and watched as the blot of ink grew larger in front of him… saying nothing.