LucidSoul

“You’re not sick.”
There’s no way he has of telling this, of course. All he knows is what chooses to escape, usually in the form of carefully chosen language. Would he be so generous, I wonder, if I spilled everything shamelessly in the way that I want to? No, of course not; He wouldn’t be able to. Not then…
I want so badly to believe his diagnosis, more so than I have any other, yet there is a small still voice inside that is painfully aware of what I hide; of what I contain.
“You are not sick.”
I think of those simple words and they fill me with more joy than he can imagine. Its far more than this body can handle; much more than I am capable of expressing. I quickly wipe my tears, afraid they they will be mistaken for old pain and resentment that is being released when they are not. They are tears of joy…happiness at being seen quite possibly for the first time.
“You are not sick.”
Dare I even placate this? Is it safe to think in such a manner? I love him for being so bold and so giving, but could I…could I even dare?
I…
I…am not sick.