That word

The first time I thought of saying it,

I sat jacketless on winter's concrete—

cold air biting,

tears falling.

You found me there,

alone, unraveling.

"Get up," you said,

hand extended like a lifeline.

"I can't. I'm too sad,"

my voice cracked like brittle ice.

You didn’t flinch—

just pulled me into your warmth,

my sorrow soaking your shoulder.

"I'm okay," I sobbed.

But you knew better.

"Someone who's okay doesn’t cry in the cold."

I spilled my worries—

bad shift,

mom's procedure,

hormones and hunger.

"TMI," I muttered, embarrassed.

And you,

without pause:

"What kind of snack do you want?"

As if that was the cure.

Crackers, applesauce...

"Chocolate pudding would help."

You brought two.

Opened mine.

Butterflies stirred.

That word crept to the edge of my lips.

It wasn’t just pudding.

It was listening,

laughing at my dumb stories,

bringing me drinks,

noticing the little things

no one else sees.

Still—

I didn’t say it.

We hold each other

when the world is loud

and we need silence.

Hearts syncing in the dark.

You ask, "Why are you crying?"

I lie: “I’m not.”

Touch on my cheek—

"Then why is your face wet?”

Back and forth.

I say "nothing."

You let it go.

That word—so close

it burns my throat.

You,

my calm in the chaos,

painkiller for an aching soul.

Your voice stills the tremors

in my mind,

quiets the fire

under my skin.

Still—

I do not say it.

How is one word so heavy?

We use it carelessly—

for pets, for pizza,

for playlists.

But with you—

it’s a war.

A whisper in the trenches

of my heart.

I want to scream it,

yet choke it down.

What if it ruins everything?

What if you don’t say it back?

Inside,

two armies battle.

One begs to let it out,

to finally know.

The other fears

what knowing will cost.

You feed both sides—

your smile, your warmth,

your unwavering presence.

And still—

I wait.

Maybe you’ll say it first.

Maybe you're at war, too.

Do you dream of that word

falling from my lips?

Or yours?

So I live in the maybe.

In moments and smiles,

in pudding and silence,

in held hands and unsaid things.

And the word,

still caged behind my teeth,

waits.