I’ll Explain This Later

I’ll explain this later—why I kept my coat on inside the house, why the room felt colder after you left than it ever did in winter. There was a reason, I tell myself, something orderly and sensible, but all I can remember now is the sound of the door closing and how the air seemed to rearrange itself afterward.

I’ll explain this later—why I didn’t answer your message even though I watched it appear, bright and patient, on my phone. It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t strategy. It was the way words feel heavier when they are finally meant, how lifting them can strain muscles you didn’t know you had.

I’ll explain this later—why the photograph stayed on the shelf long after the frame cracked. I could say it was nostalgia or habit, but really it was fear of learning what emptiness looks like once something is removed. Some spaces don’t echo; they swallow.

I’ll explain this later—why I learned the rhythm of the ceiling fan at night, counting rotations like prayers. Each turn felt like a small delay granted, a gentle permission not to decide anything yet. Motion is comforting when it goes nowhere.

I’ll explain this later—why I always said I was fine, even when my voice thinned at the edges. “Fine” is a word that buys time. It sounds complete enough that no one asks for footnotes, no one demands the missing pages.

I’ll explain this later—why the apology stayed unsent in my drafts, rewritten so many times it lost its original shape. Every version sounded like a different person speaking, and I couldn’t tell which one was allowed to be real.

I’ll explain this later—why I walked past the place we used to sit without slowing down. Memory can be a trap if you linger too long, a soft chair that convinces you to stay until standing up feels impossible.

I’ll explain this later—why laughter startled me that afternoon, why it felt like a foreign language I almost recognized. Joy, when unexpected, can feel intrusive, like someone opening a window you forgot was there.

I’ll explain this later—why I kept saying “soon” instead of naming a date. Soon is elastic. It stretches to cover fear, doubt, and the quiet hope that circumstances might resolve themselves without requiring a choice.

I’ll explain this later—why the night felt so loud despite the silence. Thoughts have a way of amplifying themselves when there’s nothing else to compete with them, turning whispers into negotiations you didn’t agree to attend.

I’ll explain this later—why I believed understanding would arrive on its own, like weather, without effort. I waited for clarity the way people wait for sunrise, forgetting that sometimes clouds linger all day.

I’ll explain this later—why I started packing boxes before knowing where I would go. Movement can masquerade as progress. It feels responsible, decisive, even when it’s only a rehearsal for leaving.

I’ll explain this later—why your name still paused me mid-sentence when someone else said it. Some words carry history like static electricity; you feel the shock even when you expect it.

I’ll explain this later—why I thought time owed me answers simply because it kept passing. Time is generous with minutes and stingy with explanations. It gives you space, not conclusions.

I’ll explain this later—why the last thing I promised was honesty. It sounded noble, definitive, like an ending. But honesty is not a destination—it’s a practice, and I was still learning how to begin.

I’ll explain this later—why I keep saying that, even now. Maybe explanation isn’t what I’m waiting for. Maybe it’s courage. Or forgiveness. Or the quiet moment when the need to explain finally loosens its grip and lets the story remain unfinished.