The Secret I'll Never Write About (But He Knows)

We park in front of the house. The early spring air is soft, touched by a gentle sun. Together, we open his black SUV and unload white plastic bags filled with clothes and shoes, boxes of books, and a container of old sketchbooks from over ten years ago, among other things. We carry everything in.

Moving in with my boyfriend felt like progress. Still, the past doesn’t always stay behind.

I felt a heavy weight on my chest.

Would the topic of it even come up? What if it slips out when I’m intoxicated, and I wake up to him packing my belongings? Can I carry this burden for the rest of my life?

I thought I had forgotten the secret, but since moving in, it began to haunt me all day, every day. I tried to compartmentalize, attempting to forget about it and bury it deep. For a bit, I was able to enjoy my new life with my boyfriend, but the secret continued to rear its ugly head in the back of my mind.

Over a year goes by, and each one of those days torments me. Is it better to get it out for my sanity, or to keep hiding from it for the sake of our relationship?

One night, he was getting ready to go out with friends. He stepped out of the shower and opened the door to find me sitting up in bed, tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t take it anymore. It came out in pieces, my breathing growing uncontrollable. I braced myself. This might be the last night we spend together.

He lay down next to me and pulled me closer.

Take care,

Quiet

currently listening to: a gordon ramsay show in the background

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