“Tell me something,” he says. He says it every single night, without any elaboration.
“What do you want to know?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, anything.”
I pause for a while, not because I have nothing to say, but because what I want to say is far too…cliché. I’m a writer, for goodness sake. I should be able to fake my way through the same vague question every night, but somehow, in eight weeks, he’s learned everything there is to learn.
“I don’t hang up when you fall asleep at night,” I say, leaving it very open ended. He asks me why, as I knew he would. “Because I know you get nightmares,” I pause. “And I feel better knowing you’re okay.”
“What would you do if I wasn’t?”
“I would wake you up. You can’t suffer and ruin my night also.” He chuckles and asks me about my plans for the upcoming morning.
“What do you want to know?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, anything.”
I pause for a while, not because I have nothing to say, but because what I want to say is far too…cliché. I’m a writer, for goodness sake. I should be able to fake my way through the same vague question every night, but somehow, in eight weeks, he’s learned everything there is to learn.
“I don’t hang up when you fall asleep at night,” I say, leaving it very open ended. He asks me why, as I knew he would. “Because I know you get nightmares,” I pause. “And I feel better knowing you’re okay.”
“What would you do if I wasn’t?”
“I would wake you up. You can’t suffer and ruin my night also.” He chuckles and asks me about my plans for the upcoming morning.
“Tell me something,” he asks again the next night.
“Like what?” I ask, knowing he’ll give no further request.
He doesn’t.
“I hate falling asleep with people,” I say very honestly.
“You fall asleep with me every night, either on the phone or in person.” It’s not a question, but I know what he’s asking me.
“I know.” He lets this one go, sensing that it’s just going to be one of those things that we don’t mention.
“Like what?” I ask, knowing he’ll give no further request.
He doesn’t.
“I hate falling asleep with people,” I say very honestly.
“You fall asleep with me every night, either on the phone or in person.” It’s not a question, but I know what he’s asking me.
“I know.” He lets this one go, sensing that it’s just going to be one of those things that we don’t mention.
“Tell me something,” he says, like clockwork. This time, I don’t ask him to clarify, or be more specific. I tell him something.
“I’ve never been in love.”
He pauses for a long while after this. “Okay,” he says brightly as ever, and continues with our regularly scheduled small talk.
“I’ve never been in love.”
He pauses for a long while after this. “Okay,” he says brightly as ever, and continues with our regularly scheduled small talk.
We went the next three days without speaking. I didn’t call him, and he surely didn’t call me. The next time he spoke to me was very different.
“‘Tell me something,’” my sister reads from a neat hand written letter. “‘Everyone here has hidden something from me.’” Elizabeth, Lizzie, looks up with tears in her eyes. “Rose doesn’t want you to mourn her. She doesn’t want you to miss her. She just wants one thing: tell her the truth.” Lizzie steps down from the alter, and goes to sit in that first pew, with our three sisters and two brothers and him.
One by one, everyone makes their way to me.
“I was the one that stole your clothes from the locker room that one day in high school.” I don’t know why. You always said you hated them anyways.
“I slept with your sister the night before her wedding.” I know. That’s why we broke up shortly after the wedding.
“I stayed home from my semester abroad to help you take care of the house after Mom and Dad, you know.” Lizzie the Saint. Always doing for others.
One catches me off guard.
“I love you.” His head is bowed, eyes closed. His mouth is scrunched to the side, like he does when he’s ashamed.
For a split second, I regret my decision, only because I can’t jump up and scream at him, Why? Why wouldn’t you say anything?
“I waited for you to tell me, because I knew you did.”
If you knew, then what were you afraid of?
“I just always thought it was too…cliché.”
I know what he means. It was often the thought that plagued my mind as well.
“When I asked you to tell me something, you defined it for me.”
I was hoping you would pick up on that.
“But I didn’t have the words to describe it. I’m a writer, I should be able to say more.”
That would’ve been enough.
“I should be able to say more than just three words to describe what you do to me.”
Just three words could’ve changed everything.
“But I can’t find another way to say it.” He breathes deeply and continues. “So for now, just three words will have to be enough.”
Just three words is perfect.
“‘Tell me something,’” my sister reads from a neat hand written letter. “‘Everyone here has hidden something from me.’” Elizabeth, Lizzie, looks up with tears in her eyes. “Rose doesn’t want you to mourn her. She doesn’t want you to miss her. She just wants one thing: tell her the truth.” Lizzie steps down from the alter, and goes to sit in that first pew, with our three sisters and two brothers and him.
One by one, everyone makes their way to me.
“I was the one that stole your clothes from the locker room that one day in high school.” I don’t know why. You always said you hated them anyways.
“I slept with your sister the night before her wedding.” I know. That’s why we broke up shortly after the wedding.
“I stayed home from my semester abroad to help you take care of the house after Mom and Dad, you know.” Lizzie the Saint. Always doing for others.
One catches me off guard.
“I love you.” His head is bowed, eyes closed. His mouth is scrunched to the side, like he does when he’s ashamed.
For a split second, I regret my decision, only because I can’t jump up and scream at him, Why? Why wouldn’t you say anything?
“I waited for you to tell me, because I knew you did.”
If you knew, then what were you afraid of?
“I just always thought it was too…cliché.”
I know what he means. It was often the thought that plagued my mind as well.
“When I asked you to tell me something, you defined it for me.”
I was hoping you would pick up on that.
“But I didn’t have the words to describe it. I’m a writer, I should be able to say more.”
That would’ve been enough.
“I should be able to say more than just three words to describe what you do to me.”
Just three words could’ve changed everything.
“But I can’t find another way to say it.” He breathes deeply and continues. “So for now, just three words will have to be enough.”
Just three words is perfect.
Every night, like clockwork, he visits me, and follows through on my request. Tell me something.
“You are beautiful,” he says one night. Three words. “You changed my life,” he says another. Four. “Your smile makes me happy.” Five. Every night, he tries to find new ways to say it. He challenges himself to break the cliché and add at least one word every time, sometimes more.
This past week was record breaking.
"I eat with Lizzie on Sundays, because I know she’s lonely.” Eleven. “Kyla helped me sort through your things to give to your family.” Twelve. “I’ve started an annual scholarship in your name for artists who are struggling with depression.” Fifteen.
Now, I know.
“You are beautiful,” he says one night. Three words. “You changed my life,” he says another. Four. “Your smile makes me happy.” Five. Every night, he tries to find new ways to say it. He challenges himself to break the cliché and add at least one word every time, sometimes more.
This past week was record breaking.
"I eat with Lizzie on Sundays, because I know she’s lonely.” Eleven. “Kyla helped me sort through your things to give to your family.” Twelve. “I’ve started an annual scholarship in your name for artists who are struggling with depression.” Fifteen.
Now, I know.