Like it knows that I've been carrying too much, the morning gently wakes me up. Like forgiveness, the aroma of fresh, unbothered roses fills the air inside my room. It is gentle and uninvited like something vying for a spot without disturbing the silence. I swing my legs over the bed's edge. Like a memory, the silk of my nightgown slides over my skin. It's purple, I love every shades of it. I take my time. I choose a muted lavender shade for the day, it's casual and that falls just above the knees. I paired it with flat sandals.
He's there when I enter the conservatory, Ryan. I wasn't prepared, something unfairly attractive about him in just a plain white T-shirt and drawstring pants. Maybe it was the way the fabric clung to his shoulders or how effortless he looked. Casual shouldn't look that good. Sunlight frames a steel cut shadow. Steam is curling like a conversation neither of us has dared to start, our coffee is already poured. He doesn't raise his head, like it's hard for him to tolerate my presence as well.
"I was unaware of our plans for breakfast."I say as I settle into the chair across from him.
He raises the cup to his lips and responds, "We don't."
I furrow my brow, "So you were here by chance?"
His eyes are cool but not frigid as he looks over his mug, "Probably that."
It's nearly humorous, nearly but not quite, though. And again the silence fill the room and we didn't talk while we eat. The only sound is porcelain grazing with forks. Between sips, the coffee cools. A thread of silent comprehension pulling closer to us.
"Do you always eat like this?" I ask "In echoing rooms?"
He stops. Slowly, he looks up, into my eyes. "Once you get used to the quiet, they don't echo."
I swallow hard cause It lands deeper than I anticipated."I've never heard anything so depressing."
He cocks his head and something flickers behind his eyes. Not melancholy. Not arrogance but just the truth. "You believe that silence is a sign of weakness," he says.
"No. I believe we lie about it until it changes into something else."
He moves his hand over the cup. Like thread coming loose from a seam, the tension in his shoulders relaxes. "I've never had to explain myself to someone who didn't owe me anything," he says after a brief pause.
I look him in his eyes , god they make me forget what I want to say but this time, no. I won't, "And I've never had to act I love someone, I don't even know."
We look at one another. Not exactly as strangers.
"Then tell me, love, what do you want to know about me?" he asks in a voice that is quieter than the morning.
There is almost too much to ask about him. Like the pages of a story I haven't read but feel a connection to nonetheless. It floods my mind. Where do I start? His early fantasies? Or What's keeping him up at two in the morning? The tunes that give him a sense of visibility? What does he secretly wish for, or what does he fear most? I want to know everything, including the hidden realities he has never spoken aloud and not just the obvious facts. But as he looks into my eyes, the words clench in my throat. Because everything is what I truly want to know, and how can you even start to ask for a soul?
I glance at my plate. Then get back at him. "Perhaps something I can't look up on Google."
His eyes narrow as if I had just opened a door he didn't think I would see. "Ask me," he says.
So I do, "When you were ten years old, what did you want to be?" He parted his lips, takes a moment to respond like he had already forgotten all his dreams.
At last, he says, "An architect."
"Really?"
He gives a nod. "The idea of creating structures that wouldn't collapse appealed to me. It suited me, according to my mother. " He continues.
This is the first time he mention his mother "And now you construct glass-walled empires." I say with a faint smile.
He gives a thin smile. "When glass breaks, it's easier to clean up."
I take a sip of my coffee and for the first time it's taste felt bitter. Maybe it was not the coffee but his words. "Next question, What gives you a sense of security?" I ask.
He lets out a breath, a surprise, not annoyance. "I doubt I've ever asked myself that question."
"Well", I reply, "perhaps you ought to."
He gives a contemplative nod and he says slowly, "When I know the outcome, I feel safe. When I'm not betting on people, I feel safe. "
"So you don't feel secure in my presence." I ask him again.
His lack of response is sufficient proof. Finally, he says, "I don't know the outcome with you."
"Neither do I," I mumble. Both of us become silent once more. This quiet isn't meaningless because there are a lot of things left unsaid.The cutlery is too heavy for me to handle on a morning like this, so I play with the edge of my plate.
"May I ask you another question?" Without looking up, I say. He speaks softly.
"Whatever you'll ask, I'll answer today, love."
I stop and finally say, "What is the most valuable item you have ever lost?"
He takes a while to respond. For a moment, I believe he might not but then, as if the words had cost him something, he lets out a slow breath. "My mom." The air changes, not any colder and no more weight present but it simply... reverent. I look him in the eyes, but he's not looking at me. Instead, he's looking past the glass and into something that's out of my reach. He doesn't elaborate, he does not provide the narrative and I also don't ask for it. Because not all griefs require a listener. All they need is understanding silence.
Then I whisper, "What frightens you?"
He gives a silent response, "Me, when I'm feeling nothing as well as when I feel overwhelmed. It lodges deep within me."
I place my hand on the cup and observe the way the light flickers through the steam. Then I ask the question not because I anticipate a response. Not because I'm worthy of one. However, until the words are spoken aloud, my heart won't stop beating.
"I'll ask this question once, the final instance, Why me?"
He doesn't wince. However, something within him remains motionless. He seems to be holding a sentence with too many thorns to speak as something quiets down behind his eyes. He doesn't respond, not in words.
He just looks at me as if I were something dangerous he doesn't know how to let go of and something delicate he doesn't know how to hold. However, the meaning of our silence becomes heavy, and I comprehend. He refuses to say it because it would become real if he say it, and he still fears the real world whether it's hate or love. So I give a little, knowing, bittersweet smile. And I say it for him in my mind.
I tell myself, 'He doesn't care, so he doesn't respond.' Since it was never truly me, he doesn't talk. Perhaps that's the reality, I've been trying to avoid. In the silence that ensues, we sit and being silent doesn't hurt for once. I'll accept it now, he'll never love me.
The roses outside catch the morning light as if they were waiting to bloom again for the first time, for me this time.