no effing way i’d tell you that

He climbed up the stairs, slowly watching her, hesitating whether to speak or not. When he did though, the words came out like whispers. She hears it, but not loud enough. Whatever it was, it sounded important. But whispers and whispers, and they’d drift away and beaten by the sound of the other things. Things he would never listen anyway. He can’t. He won’t.

But she caught. Between all the noise, she caught what he said, well at least fragments of it, and etched it right away in her memory. He’s speaking to me, she thought. I ought to say something back.

So what she did was she shrugged him off and tell him to stay away. To get the fuck out.

She didn’t have the guts to tell him what she really thought anyway. There was guilt. And then there’s fear. Fear that he’d never accept what she was going to say, even that she knew his response would be, it’s okay. It’s not. Not when it involved his whole principle and belief anyway. She’d rather have him be in the dark, not knowing, what was going on inside her.

She’d rather deflect.

Yeah.