He was not like any man she had known before. And she admired his innocence. While other men were quick to pay her a compliment or two, he would sit far off in the distance with his cup of tea, just smiling back at her when their gazes caught each other. Her throat dry, unable to make words when it did.
There were times where he would call her name and she would turn around anticipating more but he would dismiss it with a short remark such as "nevermind" or "it's ok". Gazing into his eyes, she knew there was more, there was always more. But he would not admit it, not to her. A past life of pain had made him absent of words. Words that he wanted to speak but failed to produce. She would lay in bed awake some nights, twirling her necklace, wondering quietly if there was something more.
She didn't want to read between the lines, she wanted to hear it from him like poetry. But instead, she would watch the way his hands gently grazed the soil as he worked in the garden and made things grow. She would lean against the kitchen, arms crossed, as she watched him prepare breakfast with her mom, and she dreaded but counted the days until he would leave their house. No longer renting a room.
If she could have it her way, she would run up to him, both of her hands pressed against his chest and her head resting on his back, pleading for him to stay. But she knew it was not this easy. And then the day finally arrived. He stood in front of the door, luggage to the side, having just placed his ride. Her mom had packed him some lunch and her father had shook his hand goodbye. And she slowly walked down the stairs to wish him farewell. When he glanced up, he saw her face. She took a deep breath.
"May all your future endeavors work out as you want them to," she told him, her voice a little shaky. "Thank you," he replied back, staring into her eyes a little too long, "I wish the same for you." When his ride pulled up into the driveway, they both grabbed the same luggage at the same time and their hands brushed against each other. She was quick to pull back but noticed he hadn't flinched. "You don't have to help me," he whispered to her. "But I want to," she replied.
She walked out to the car with him. And then she shook his hand, never wanting to let go of it. He looked down at the ground and then called out her name. Hopeful, she looked at him. "Thank you," he said, "thank you for everything. Deep breaths.
"You're welcome," she replied. Tears forming in the brink of her eyes. And then he sat in the car and buckled himself up. Staring out in front of him and giving her one last wave as the car drove off. She walked back home feeling a heavy weight on her. She closed the door and fell down hard against it. Feeling defeated. What were these months after all? In the meantime, he opened his phone, clicked on her name, and sat wanting to call her but unable to.
Such is the loss of unsaid words. And broken feelings.
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