The following is a “double drabble,” or a vignette told in precisely 200 words. In the spirit of the upcoming Valentines day, I’ve gone sentimental.
This is the chance I’m taking. These are the words I’m saying. Every path is fraught with risk, all words breathed as dangerous as any words that sit tongue-trapped. To love, to fail to love, to find no love—well. It’s all of a piece, isn’t it?
“I love you.”
There, I’ve said it, and it was as bad an idea as any. I’ll come to regret it, and only you and time and life and I will tell whether I regret it in two heartbeats, or a score of days, in a year, or ten. Only time and you and I and life will tell whether the regret lasts longer than its worth.
But this is the chance I’ve taken, and these are the words I spoke, and in this glowing moment, with my heart and face burning like a white-hot iron, and just as ready to be beaten and flattened by a cruel hammer, with the words unfurling on the air and waiting, right now, I’m glad of my choice.
(A risk? I know, but what on earth isn’t?)
For these two heartbeats, I know I’m glad. You and time and life and I will tell the rest.