Mistakes made.

Maybe it was her fault she didn’t tell him sooner. Maybe she should have gathered up her courage, picked the little bits of bravery scattered on the floor. Maybe she should have sculpted them and turned them into palpable evidence of what she felt.

Maybe she should have said it to him, that night in the dingy diner while they were half-inebriated. Maybe she should have told him the next day, after she read his good morning text. Maybe she should have gone to her tiny bathroom and calculated her expressions, and maybe she should have admitted it to him when she stared at herself in the mirror and realised she had never seen herself so happier.

Maybe she could have admitted it to him everyday since she first felt it. When she woke up with a smile lingering on her face because it was his face she last saw in her dreams; maybe she would be able to see more of him if she did. Maybe she would have been less scared that way; she was calculating and sure, and she never liked surprises, but maybe if she had counted better, maybe if she hadn’t added algebra to arithmetic, maybe if she had let integers remain integers, maybe she would have had her shot.

Maybe she could have told him that night she asked him to stay, and maybe she thought that by staying he felt the same way.

Maybe she should have told him when she promised herself she would try to be braver. Maybe it would have made things different. Maybe he would have said he did, too; he was, too; he would love to. Maybe he would have looked down and I’m sorry; it can’t be; it’s not you. Maybe, not maybe. She would have been fine either way.

When he made to take her hand, maybe she should have given hers; she’s always had trouble remembering that people can choose to stay. She didn’t have to offer her heart, but maybe she could have shown him it was there. Maybe she could have told him, you make my heart healthy. Maybe he would have understood what she was trying so desperately to say, was failing so magnanimously to do.

Maybe she should have let her body do the talking. Maybe she should have allowed her cautious eyes to betray her sincerity, her frail body to admit it needed his warmth. Maybe she should have permitted him to touch his face when he dared, maybe she shouldn’t have moved when their knees touched, when their noses kissed, when their lips ghosted each others’. And maybe if she had moved, maybe she shouldn’t have moved away.

Maybe in another life, she’d have another chance. Maybe I would have another chance.