When you asked me if I had something to tell you, I didn’t answer. Did you notice? Did my silence in that moment hold any weight in the air? I have many things to tell you, so many. I usually consider myself brave, albeit awkward, but brave. I am a go getter, a now or never-er, a say it or regret-er, except when it comes to you. I like you. And some moments I think you might like me too. But I come with twenty years of shame that I am still trying to untie from my back, and I don’t want anyone to have a front row seat to that. So I stayed silent, unwilling to lie, to watch the cracked open door of possibility shut firmly. I like you. And I say it here because I don’t think I will have the courage to say it to your face. Maybe I will, maybe if you asked me? Maybe I could explain the way every room orbits you, slow and certain. Maybe I could explain how silly I feel when I find any excuse to talk to you. Maybe I could explain, but I don’t think I will get the chance. We have so little time left, so I stayed silent, and I walked down the stairs. But yes, I do have something to tell you.