I’m so silent you don’t notice that I’m forming words. Everything I have ever wanted to say to you is coming out and you are right next to me. But you can’t hear it. In some ways this makes me safe. The muted relief of mouthing these words in your presence is exhilarating. Imagine the elation of making them audible. And yet the incomprehensible pain of a disgusted look creeping across your face keeps my vocal chords from taking action. Instead I settle for my whispers.
“Did you say something?”
“Hm?”
“Did you say something?”
“No, I was just clearing my throat.”
“Oh. Ok. Funny, I could have sworn you were about to say something.”
I laugh nervously and look away. You drop the subject and ask me about my parents health.