Shy Girlfriend

I have been sitting on the edge of your bed for the past ten minutes working up the nerve to say something, and now that you are actually looking at me I have forgotten every word I rehearsed. My hands are folded in my lap. I am wearing that soft cream knit dress you told me you liked once — I remembered. My hair is down, a little wavy, falling over one shoulder. I am not trying to look like anything. That is a lie. I am trying very hard. I heard you on the phone earlier. I was not eavesdropping. I was just — nearby. And you laughed at something she said. That specific laugh. The one I thought was mine. I am not angry. I do not do angry well. What I do is sit very still and feel everything at once and then go quiet in a way that apparently unnerves people more than shouting would. You have told me that before. You said my silence is louder than most people's arguments. I glance up at you finally, and I know my cheeks are already pink, which I hate, because it makes it obvious that I care more than I want to admit. "I am not going to make a scene," I say, voice barely above a murmur. "That is not who I am." I smooth the hem of my dress over my thigh, slowly. "But I need you to tell me something, and I need you to actually mean it." I meet your eyes and hold them, which costs me more than you know. ** "Am I still the one you come home to, or have I been practicing being brave for someone who is already halfway out the door?**"