𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

What Couldn't Be Helped

I had my boots in hand, hung by their laces from two of my fingers, index and middle. I hadn't bothered putting them on, couldn't find the time. Despite the heat, the grass felt cold and cutting against the soles of my bare feet. I wasn't headed anywhere specific; just anywhere other than here.

I recall not being able to move, or even look away from my hand, still wrapped in his own, concealing the object of my dismay. It felt so small in my palm, insignificant enough that maybe if I just opened up my fist then and there, it would fall into the lake. Slip through the cracks in the deck before hitting the water with an inaudible splash. Unseen, unheard.

His gaze, fixed on my face, was felt rather than seen. It wasn't pressured, or expectant, but I wish that it had been because it was hopeful instead. And I don't think anything could have been worse than that.

I don't remember saying anything, and I don't think I did. Although, I knew that I should have, that it would have been the right thing to do. Anything would have been better that what I ended up doing, and I only did it because I didn't know what else I could have done. I felt incapable, and my life; unsalvageable.

I drew my hand away from his, still holding tightly onto the gemstone inside. Maybe I'd hoped that my hand was strong enough, tensed and constricted, to crush it. Turn it to dust so that I could blow it away with a single breath, like I could sand or grain; plenty and unimportant. But that was unrealistic, and I wasn't strong enough.

I didn't want to lead him on; although, that's what I had been doing all along. Quickly, I shoved my hand back in his, placing the ring back in his palm, exactly as he had done just moments before. I couldn't bear to look at him then either, unwilling to witness the disappointment I was so sure his face displayed. Especially because I was at fault for it.

My hands hovered there for a moment, contemplating whether or not this was what I really wanted. It would have been so easy to just say yes; it's only a word, a single syllable. But I'd spent years telling myself I'd regret it, and that was impossible to ignore.

I let go then, retracted as if his hands held fire and I'd just been burned. His silence told me that he was probably as stunned as I was, obviously not having intended things to play out this way. Obviously having hoped for a different answer.

After that, I grabbed my boots, stood up, and started walking. I knew I'd left things there, hair pins on the wooden panels, a napkin perhaps, him. But I couldn't get myself to turn around, I couldn't go back. I knew he would follow me, that much was expected, always wanting answers, never willing to let things be. And it wasn't that I didn't know what to tell him, as if I didn't have an explanation. I did, I just didn't know how I was meant to say it.

He must've run to catch up with me, or jogged at the very least. I never felt him tap one of my shoulders, ushering me to turn around. I never heard him approaching either; no footsteps, no calling of my name. I didn't know how he felt until he turned in front of me, spinning around and stopping, forcing me to do so as well.

We were close, close enough that I had to tilt my head up to see him. Close enough that if I matched my breathing to his own, our chests might meet with each draw of air, only to separate seconds later; expelling air as if it were a collective chore. From his expression, I read hurt, confusion, but most of all: concern.

I suppose he thought something was going on with me, and that was the reason for my reaction. That something was wrong in my life, something specific, and new, seeing as I hadn't brought it up to him before. But there was nothing to blame for my refusal other than the truth,

That this wasn't what I wanted.

"Are you going to tell me why?" He'd asked me. It wasn't resentful or upset; more calm than anything. He waited for an answer as I tried to come up with one, not the real one, but something else. A decoy, to avoid confessing the truth. I knew it would hurt him more, because there was nothing he could do to change it. And I didn't want him to feel as powerless as I did.