I Told You That I Love You

flash fiction by Christine McCoy

Photo by liewtography 1610 on Unsplash

I told you that I loved you and you said “no you don’t.” You didn’t even look up from your food as you said it—no hesitation, no uncertainty, no confusion. You just sat there across from me, taking another bite of that shrimp alfredo you always order, not even caring that it gets sauce all over your face because you cannot, for the life of you, eat without spilling on yourself.

“I love you,” I said again, almost as if you didn’t hear me the first time, except I knew you heard me the first time because you replied with “no you don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeated with that same unwavering conviction. You said it with such confidence that I paused, somehow now doubting if I really did love you, which was so stupid because I know my own feelings and I had felt like I had loved you for all of my life even though we only just met last year.

I wanted to push further: “Why do you think that? What makes you so sure? I do. I really love you.” But I didn’t. You had said with your entire chest that I did not love you, and I may not be as smart as you, but I do know one thing: anyone who says that wants the subject dropped. I just didn’t know if that was because you believed it, or because you wanted me to believe it.

So I didn’t say anything and resigned myself to taking a bite of my sandwich. I watched you pull your hair back to tie it up—taking a hair tie off your wrist and holding it between your teeth—with that somber expression you always wore. You always kept two hair ties on your wrist in case I ever needed one.

I told you that I loved you and you said “okay.” I saw the reflection of the TV in your eyes and pulled myself closer towards you. You were warm, and my hands were cold. You grabbed them. I had just told you that I loved you and you said ”okay” and then you took my cold hands in yours, gripping them as if I were a small child and we were about to cross the street.

You did all of this without tearing your eyes away from the screen, showing a truly impressive bloodbath as the killer ripped out his victim’s heart. To this day I have no idea if you were actually watching. Horror movies were never really your thing.

I rested my head on your shoulder and you held my hands even tighter. I almost wanted to repeat it, as if you hadn’t heard me the first time. But I didn’t, because I knew you heard me the first time, because you heard me the time before that as well. So I said nothing, and fell asleep on your shoulder.

I told you that I loved you and you said “that’s fine.” You didn’t even stop walking, continuing to make a beeline to Hot Topic, which is the only store in the mall you actually like visiting. You could tell that I had stopped though, without even turning around. I thought maybe you had heard my footsteps stop, except no one can hear anyone’s footsteps in a crowded mall.

But you stopped a few feet ahead of me when you realized I wasn’t following you anymore.

And then you turned around and took my hand.

“I said that’s fine,” you repeated, as if I hadn’t heard it the first time, except you knew I had heard you because I had heard you the previous two times. Your hand was warm, just like it always was, even though we were out and about in the world and not bundled up at home.

Neither of us said anything as you dragged me off to Hot Topic, and I suckered you into buying me something with Kirby on it, because he was the only character I recognized.

Something tells me I wouldn’t have had to sucker you anyways.

I told you that I loved you and you said “I know.” I didn’t look at you this time, and just leaned my head against the car window. The swaths of trees blurred together, and I didn’t recognize where we were at all. For all I knew you were taking us to Canada and there was nothing I could do about it.

The car’s radiator hummed, preventing the space between us from being filled with silence. It was just us and the radiator, and there was no way either of us could con anyone into thinking we hadn’t heard each other. So we said nothing.

I closed my eyes as they began to grow heavy, although I couldn’t tell you how earnest I was being about that. The last thing I heard before I fell asleep was the car radio turning on to my favorite station.

I told you that I loved you and you said “you do.” You had heard me. I had heard you.

Still, I found myself taking a step closer to you and saying “I do,” taking your hands as if it were our big day. We were crowding the hallway and blocking the door, but in that moment nobody else existed.

“Okay,” you said as you lowered our hands gently, letting your fingers slip out of mine, but not entirely, still holding on just barely.

“I do,” I said again, looking right into your eyes, staring into that dark abyss that I had never found frightening.

“That’s fine,” you said as you stared right back at me, looking through my eyes and into my soul.

“I love you,” I said like I had never been more sure of anything ever in my entire life, and never would be more sure of anything again.

“I know,” was all you said. And then you reached forward, buttoned my collar, and went to class.

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Christine McCoy is a young writer soon to graduate with a degree in writing from George Fox University. This is her first published story, and she hopes it will not be her last.