I suppose I've loved him since the day we met. That first day, so many years ago. I didn't know it until now, that all these years he's been there, holding a part of me that no one else has. No one else can. I couldn't call it love back then, but now there's no other word for it.

How I wish I could muster that courage to tell him. It fills up my chest, this feeling does, and I'm afraid that when (not if, for I will muster that courage) I open my mouth, the words will burst out, hitting him like a water cannon, shoving him away in shock and confusion and fear. And I can't stand that thought. I can't stand the idea of him not being here. Of not holding that part of me. Or worse, taking that part with him.

But maybe he loves me back. Even a little. I think that would be OK, to know he even loved me a little bit. Or maybe, just maybe, he has the same fears. Maybe he has a water cannon of words filling up his chest.

But that's just wishful thinking. I am no Emma, though he be Mr. Knightly. And it hurts. The truth, it hurts.

Love hurts.

Now I understand that saying.