I take a long, hot shower, then stretch out in bed. But when I close my eyes and lay still, something feels off. There’s some kind of wrongness in my bedroom, gnawing at me. I sit up again, peering around in the darkness, searching for the problem.

It takes me a minute to figure it out. It’s the window. It’s closed, because Aiden hasn’t been here tonight to open it.

I climb to the end of my bed, sit down by the window, and push it open. A chilly breeze rolls in as soon as I do, but that’s okay. After my smoke sesh with Noah, my apartment could probably use some airing out. More importantly, the cold breaking over my face gives me a point of focus, so I can think. I have a lot to think about.

I’m really doing it. I’m really going to tell Aiden that I love him.

The first idea that strikes me is to write it down.

I have to ask myself if I’m just looking for the coward’s way out. Writing something down and giving it to Aiden means that I don’t have to actually say it, at least not until I see his response. But that’s not why it crosses my mind.

I’m thinking about the poem I wrote, the one he always keeps in his wallet. Something about it spoke to him, so much so that he stole it on two separate occasions. When he was gone all that time, if he really didn’t know anything about my life - then that was his only means of hearing anything I had to say. And he used words from it to tell me something important, beneath the Guardian Tree. I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to kiss him, if he hadn’t.

Do they shower down on you in your bed

do you smile in your sleep when they find you

the thousands of kisses I send from my dreams?

I’m also thinking of the poem that reminded me of him, the one I showed him before we had our first major relationship talk. The talk when I admitted to Aiden that he is my real deal.

Your grief for what you’ve lost lifts a mirror

up to where you’re bravely working.

Then there’s that other poem, the one on the dog-eared page of the book that Aiden has read over and over.

You are the sweet songs children sing

whispering themselves to sleep

people call you the wind

people watch how you love the fields

people look up & write poems in the night about you

I call you love…

you float inside the atmosphere of my arms

you are the sea

the shells on the beach I lift to my ear

they spell out your name.

In a way, Aiden and I have been communicating through poetry for a very long time.

I read another poem recently, one that reminded me of him. One by a poet I have a longstanding love for. I could transcribe the piece of that poem into my own handwriting, give that to him.

Upon further reflection, I set this idea aside. I need to speak the words out loud to him. I want to look him in the eyes and say it, because I want him to see, hear, and feel just how much I mean it.

A plan begins to form in my mind.

My parent’s house. That’s where I should do this.

It sounds counterintuitive. I have my own immediate negative reaction to the idea, but it softens up the longer I think about it. I remember what Aiden said, that time he saw my parents doing their nightly ritual. Coffee and cuddles at the outdoor table.

It’s just nice to see that it can happen, you know? That after all this time, your parents can still be so…

Maybe, if Aiden’s thoughts do stray towards parents, being at the house will direct them to my parents, not his. Maybe he’ll remember that it is possible, to love someone and be loved back for so long. Maybe even forever.

Forever. It used to be a terrifying word, to me. But now...

It’s increasingly difficult for me to see a future where I could ever stop loving Aiden. I can’t think of anything that could make me stop. He’s been clear with me about all of the complications he comes with. I’ve weighed them all up and found that they don’t come close to tipping the scale. In fact, those complications are woven into the fabric of my feelings for him. They’re all a part of him, aren’t they?

Nothing about being with Aiden feels like an unhappy compromise. I think he sees his complications as some dark cloud, always following him around. There’s Aiden, and then there’s everything he comes with.

But I just see Aiden. Like I told him once, when we were sitting together, right here on this bed - I see him whole.

I push the covers aside, get to my feet, and pad into my dark living room. Maybe I shouldn’t have left the window open. I forgot how cold it gets without Aiden and his insane body heat to keep me warm. I end up rushing to the bookshelf.

There are three notebooks on the top shelf; I grab the first one, and a pen, then dart back to my room, diving under the comforters.

I suppose I could just close the window, but I don’t.

I click the pen on and open the notebook to a blank page. I’m determined to tell Aiden to his face, but maybe it’ll help if I write down what I want to say first.

What I find myself doing instead is copying out every poem we’ve shared with each other, and seeing how they all look together. At the end, I add the little piece of poetry I’d thought of writing down for him.

Do they shower down on you in your bed

do you smile in your sleep when they find you

the thousands of kisses I send from my dreams?

Your grief for what you’ve lost lifts a mirror

Up to where you’re bravely working.

You are the sweet songs children sing

whispering themselves to sleep

people call you the wind

people watch how you love the fields

people look up & write poems in the night about you

I call you love…

you float inside the atmosphere of my arms

you are the sea

the shells on the beach I lift to my ear

they spell out your name.

I would have loved you in any era, in any dark age.

Even in the farthest future, in the most distant universe

I would have recognized this voice

Refracted, as it would be

Like light from some small, uncharted star.

I look down at the page, chewing my lip. I have no intention of showing Aiden this. I only wanted a clear picture of what my feelings look like, so I can explain them better. And what a surprisingly clear picture I’ve just painted, by collaging together all these things we’ve been struggling to tell each other.

Below the gathered lines, on the same page, I write:

Aiden, I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you.

I stop, staring down at the notebook.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I drop the pen and rip the page out. Crumple it up, then fling it at the trash can. For a moment, I sit motionless in the dark, my hands pressed over my mouth.

I panicked a little, seeing the full span of my feelings laid out before me, but I’m not giving up so easily. I take a few steadying breaths, then reach for my phone.

Me 11:45 PM: Hey mom, can Aiden and I come for dinner on Sunday?

Mom 💗 11:48 PM: Why are you up so late honey is everything ok?

I could honestly burst out laughing. If only she knew how many late nights I’ve spent up recently. Midnight has stopped seeming like a late hour, in my head.

Me 11:48 PM: Sorry did I wake you up? Everything’s okay!

Mom 💗 11:49 PM: No your father woke me up with his snoring!

Mom 💗 11:50 PM: Of course you can come for dinner, since when do you need to ask?

Me 11:51 PM: But you won’t have other people over? Any friends or family or anything

Mom 💗 11:51 PM: No, why?

Mom 💗 11:52 PM: Do you want to come to church, too?😊 Sunday is a holy day my sweet boy!

I respond that I just wanted to know, and no thank you on church, then open up my messages with Aiden. I stare down at the blinking cursor, but before I can type anything, my phone starts buzzing.

He’s calling me. As always, a wave of warmth floats down my body, the moment his contact photo appears. I let the call ring for a minute, admiring the photo, all the small details. Aiden’s chiseled jaw catching the light of the flash; his smile, charged with warmth and intimacy. One glossy chestnut strand escaping his snapback.

“Hi,” I murmur, snuggling back into my pillows.

“Oh, hi.” He sounds surprised. “Sorry, I - didn’t expect you to be up.”

“Then why did you call me, dummy?”

“I…” Aiden clears his throat. “Missed you. I was gonna leave you a voicemail, I guess. I don’t know.”

Stop making me love you more! I want to scream at him. I’m already overwhelmed, fucking stop it!

“How was your run?” I ask, instead. “If you’re going to insist on exercising, you could at least have the decency to text me some sexy post-run selfies.”

“Oh, yes, so sexy, all covered in sweat, with my hair completely fucked up and my face all red-”

“Is this you arguing with me, or trying to prove my point?”

Aiden laughs. I press my cheek harder against my phone, as if I could lean into that sound.

“What have you been up to?” he asks.

“Noah came over,” I yawn, tugging the comforter up to my chin.

“What’d you guys do?”

“Smoked a little, played some games, talked.”

“About what?”

“About-” I break off, realizing that I need to stick to only half the story if I’m not going to lie. “How he’s liking living with Melanie and Raj. Seems like he loves it.”

“Yeah,” Aiden agrees, “Mellie was like, gushing about him, when she and I talked. Every time he came up she got all smiley. Who’d have thought those two would get along?”

“Me. I thought that.”

Aiden laughs again. “Well, I’m glad it’s all working out. It’s nice to see Mellie so happy.”

I fidget with the edge of my blanket, then ask the question that’s on my mind.

“Aiden… you cared about her, didn’t you? Melanie, I mean. You cared about her, even back in high school. Even though you acted the opposite way. And you still care, now.”

I hear a quiet sound from the other end of the line: the rustle of moving blankets. I picture Aiden sitting up in bed, his phone pressed to his ear.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s not a trick question. I won’t be upset if you say yes.”

“Alright…” There’s a brief silence. “Yes, I do care about her. And I did back then, too. If I'm being honest, I didn’t expect that to happen, not when we first got together. I mean - I liked her as a person, and we clicked on a physical level, but I knew that we weren’t right for each other. That combination of things was pretty much exactly what I was looking for, at the time.”

We weren’t right for each other. Aiden says it so firmly, like it’s a plain and simple fact. Like there was never any doubt in his mind.

I know what he means, though. When I think of everyone I’ve been with before him… somewhere, deep down, with all of those guys, I knew that something critical was missing between us. Some gap there was no way to bridge.

“That’s what you were looking for?” I ask, confused. “You were actively looking to date someone you had no real connection with?”

“I didn’t want to risk…” Aiden fades off. “That’s - what felt safe. At the time.” Another pause. “Mellie told you that she thought she was coming with me when I left Ketterbridge, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah, I never realized she thought that. Not until the night I left, when I went to say goodbye to her.” I can almost hear Aiden cringe. “Because I thought she knew. I assumed she did, because I could tell so easily. That ultimately I wasn’t her person, and she wasn’t mine, even if we did like each other.”

I hesitate, then venture one more question.

“So why did you always act like you didn’t care at all, if you liked her?”

Aiden sighs.

“I... had started to care about her a lot, somewhere along the way, and I could tell that she cared a lot about me, too, so... I thought that keeping her at arm's length would make it easier on both of us, when I left town.” Another pause, this one longer than the others. “Anyways, I was right about one thing. Mellie and I, we’re wrong for each other, and we always have been. I mean, she looks happier around Noah than she ever did with me, much less Raj. But I shouldn't have handled it like that. I should have let her go as soon as I knew it wouldn’t work out. I was being selfish. Just one more for the long list of stuff I wish I’d done differently in high school.”

I tap my fingers on the mattress, absorbing all this.

After Aiden and Melanie had their talk, I’d asked him why he chose to be with her, when that wasn’t what he really wanted. What he just shared with me - it’s the answer to my question.

At the time, he didn’t want to discuss it, but he promised to tell me later, and he just did.

“Thank you, babe.”

“Sure,” Aiden says, yawning. “Wait, for what?”

“Telling me all that.”

“Oh.” His low voice warms, and softens. “No problem.”

It strikes me suddenly that this is only one answer, for a two-part question. I’d also asked him why he never tried to be with me.

Or... is this an answer to both parts? Aiden said he didn’t want to be with someone he felt a real connection with. That he didn’t want to risk… something. He hadn’t finished that sentence.

But I think I know what he was going to say. He didn’t want to risk falling in love with anyone.

If Aiden never tried to be with me, did everything he could to make me hate him, actively pushed me away every chance he got… does that mean…?

Did he think of me as someone he could fall in love with? Even back then?

Now Noah’s words are running through my head. Reminding me that there were signs everywhere, in high school.

Aiden has been waiting patiently for me to say something.

“Do you want to come to dinner at my parents’ house on Sunday?”

He agrees easily. Why wouldn’t he? He has no idea.

By the time we hang up, it’s actually late, and a light shower is coming down outside of my window. I move to sit at the end of my bed again, the blanket bundled around me. I’m still cold, so I grab my favorite flannel and pull it on. I stay there for a bit, watching the rain. The night sky has turned a shade of soft violet, from the moonlight through the storm clouds.

Nerves are fluttering around in my stomach, making me restless. I can’t help but be scared. There’s always a risk that saying this to someone will leave you misunderstood and bruised up, but - Aiden is so fucking important to me. If this doesn’t work out, it will be much worse than that.

It doesn’t matter, though. Aiden needs to know. Being with him has taught me that silence isn’t always a bad thing. But in this case, silence is a convenient place to hide.

I’m not hiding anymore.

When I can barely keep my eyes open, I climb out of bed to put my flannel back in the closet. A soft crunch of paper stops me. I look down to find the collaged poem on the ground. I must have missed the trash can. I grab it, crumple it up until it's tiny. I put it in the pocket of my flannel, then toss the flannel onto my desk. I’m too cold to deal with this, right now, and exhausted from thinking myself in circles all night. I’ll throw it out tomorrow.

I have a feeling that this week is going to fly by. Sunday is going to descend on me quickly. Just thinking about it makes my hands start to shake again, but I’m not going to back out.

I've been living this truth for a long time. Now, I need to speak it.