I wanted to say sorry

I almost called you last night. 

I had my thumb hovering over your contact, 

just staring at your name until the screen went dark.

 I wanted to tell you that I fixed that squeak in the floorboard,

the one you always tripped over,

but then I remembered why I was fixing it alone.

The silence in this apartment is heavy. 

Silence is louder than the shouting ever was. 

I said that I was fine.

I said I was done, too.

I told you I didn't care.

But I keep replaying the look on your face,

right before I turned away,

that look of pure exhaustion,

 like I was a weight you couldn't carry anymore.

 I saw the way you winced when I raised my voice,

 and it kills me.

I never wanted to be that person.

I wanted to call you and tell you I’m sorry.

I wanted to tell you that I've been sitting  with my head in my hands, 

wondering how I let it get that far.

But I didn’t press call.

I stayed frozen,

 because I knew that hearing my voice would be another bruise.

 If I really love you, 

I have to let you breathe. 

I need to protect you, from that version of me. 

Maybe you’re finally sleeping through the night.

Maybe you  stopped wondering if we’re okay. 

Maybe you’re laughing with your friends. 

And maybe your chest doesn't feel tight.

I almost called you last night because I’m falling apart.

 But I stayed silent,

 because I don’t want to break you too.

(this is a response to I almost called you by Paige Turner)