Page 100 of October
I've never been good at saying the right words out loud, not when it matters most. Feelings pile up inside me until they tangle and catch in my throat. But writing... writing gives me time. It lets me slow down, untie the knots, and let the words come out one by one, honestly. So I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her, and sat by the small desk near the window. Under the lamplight, I opened a fresh page.
There, in my uneven handwriting, I wrote the title across the top:
« Pensées du cœur »Thoughts from the Heart
One thought every week. Short or long. About the week that passed, a childhood memory, a fear, a promise, or justthank you for being here, even now.A small ritual. Not something to impress her, but something to remindboth of usthat love needs tending. That even when I can't always say it right, it doesn't mean I don't feel it, fiercely, deeply, stubbornly.
Tonight, it is an apology.
I m sorry for every time you had to guess whether I loved you. For every time I looked away instead of reaching for your hand. For every moment I let your shoulders carry the weight of both of us. You should never have had to doubt that you were wanted. Cherished. Safe.
But you don't have to wonder if I'm listening. I am.
You are my home October, and I will spend whatever time I have left becoming the kind of home you never want to leave.
I love you.
— T.
I folded the first letter carefully and placed it in the old wooden box, I will giver her these letters the right time, when she is ready. The box felt almost too small for what I hoped to put inside. When I slipped back under the blanket, October stirred, blinking at me with soft confusion. "Everything alright?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," I whispered, pressing my hand over hers. "Everything's alright."
I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, my chest tight with guilt and memory. The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn't soothe; it accuses. Every creak in the walls, every breath of wind outside the window, echoed against the silence I'd built inside myself.
I keep replaying it all like some endless film loop I can't pause or mute. The choices I made. The excuses I whispered into the dark like prayers. The split-second moments when I could've turned back, could've chosen her, could've chosenusbut didn't. Cowardice dressed up as confusion. Fear disguised as logic.
Some nights, the shame feels heavier than my own bones. It lies across my chest, relentless. And worse than the shame is the aftermath I see in her: the hesitation in her laughter, like she has to scan the room for danger before she lets joy in. The heaviness in her hugs, like she's holding something back. The shadows in her gaze that weren't there before, ones I put there.
I know I can't rewrite it. I can't explain it into something smaller or less cruel. There are no poetic metaphors strong enough to make betrayal sound like an accident. I don't want to be forgiven because I asked for it, I want to be forgiven because I earned it and until then, all I can do is show up. Every day. Not justloving her in the quiet safety of my thoughts, butout loud. Not perfectly. Not dramatically. Just stubbornly.
Just then, I heard a soft sound, floorboards creaking under cautious feet, the whisper of someone trying not to wake the house. I got up, padded down the hall, and paused outside Jimmy's door. The faintest strip of light bled out from under it.
I knocked gently, then pushed the door open with care. Jimmy was sitting on the edge of his bed, posture stiff and still like he'd been caught mid-crime. The unmistakable glow of a phone had just vanished beneath his pillow, but not fast enough to hide the fact he'd been using it.
"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?" I said, leaning casually against the doorframe.
He glanced up, guilt flickering across his face. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just texting."
"A girl?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, half-smiling.
He tried to look casual, but the grin gave him away. "Yeah."
I narrowed my eyes. "Wait — the one who rejected you?"
He snorted. "God, no. Even my best friend rejected her. She was rude to everyone."
He leaned back a little, the smile growing. "This is Carissa. She's new. Just moved here last week."
I walked in slowly and sat down beside him, keeping my voice gentle. "She nice?"
He nodded, still avoiding my eyes. "She... she draws little cartoons in her notebook. Like, in the margins. Today she showed me one of a cat playing the drums and then she gave it to me."
He pulled a folded piece of paper from under his pillow and handed it to me, careful, like it was something fragile. I unfolded it, and there it was, an adorably scribbled cat, sunglasses on, banging away at a drum set made out of teacups. My chest ached, full and warm. In the middle of all the heaviness of life, he had this—this strange, pure kind of light.
"She gave this to you?"
He nodded. "She said it reminded her of me. Because the cat looks serious, but it's actually kinda ridiculous."
