The green truck love was different from the frozen love, from the pre-prom love, from the rubble mountain maybe love. Different from the pulling love, different from the flash card love, different from the swollen cheeks love, different from the ignored letter love. It was different from the futile fullness love. It is different from the “maybe I could” love.
I tried to say “I love you” to him in a green truck, on a warm late summer night, a couple of hours before college took him three hours away—at the time, a barrier too big to bear. I felt like I had to say it but I couldn’t get it out and I tried hard but then he told me not to say it, but we both knew the secret. Not saying something doesn’t make it less true.
He said it to me in the snow, and I froze…
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