I felt strange tightness in my chest contract and constrict as I gazed down at him, curled up embryo-style against my chest, his body cradled in my arms. I knew I cared for him…I certainly liked him…wanted him…but did I love him? He said he loved me…but he had loved him before. I don’t know if I love him, I’m not even certain of his love for me.

I shook my head, the loosened strands of my hair brushing against my temples lightly. The thoughts were persistent, not clearing, as I desired, forcing me to think them, forcing me to sort through the painful feelings. I rested my head on his, my cheek rubbing against the silky softness of his chestnut curls. As he stirred in his sleep and wrapped his arm around my neck, bringing us closer together, I felt the unexplainable, desperate urge to cry.

He thinks I’m sleeping. I know he does, from the way he’s gazing at me with the tenderness in his eyes. He won’t look into my eyes when I’m awake, he’s afraid I’ll know he cares. He doesn’t want anyone to know he has a heart; that he can love and feel just as deeply and passionately as anyone else. He doesn’t even let himself know it. He won’t believe that I love him because he doesn’t want to admit that he loves me.

I wrap my arms around his neck, keeping my eyes closed, enjoying the feel of his strong chest under my face, the beat of his heart a steady, comforting drone in my ear.

Just as I feel the warmth of his tears on my hair, a tear leaks out from under my eyelid and trickles down my cheek to his bare chest.

I can feel his tears on my chest, warm trickles wetting my skin. I close my eyes quickly, trying to will away the few tears that escaped without my consent. At last I drag a shaky hand over my eyes, hoping he didn’t feel the tears that glisten like dewdrops in his hair. I bow my head, burying my face into the silky strands of his hair, wrapping my hands in it, clinging desperately to I don’t know what.

His hands reach up and stroke my hair, the back of my neck, trembling from an emotion I can’t decipher. I’m twisting my hands tighter and tighter into the silken strands, knowing I’m hurting him but I can’t stop.

I can feel his tears, weighing like stones on my hair, seeping through and warming the skin of my back and neck. His hands are clinging and he’s pulling my hair. It hurts, but I don’t say anything, hoping he’s working his way through the barrier, hoping he can love me.

At last his hands relax their death grip on my hair and I feel the last of his tears being shed.

I’m ashamed of my open act of emotion, embarrassed that I let myself go like that, sorry I hurt him.

I say as much, whispering in soft tones an apology as he listens, still cradled in my arms, his head still resting against my chest. After a moment, I watch as his head moves up and down with my shaky breathing.

Suddenly, his arms are around my neck again and he’s pressing his lips against mine in a bruising kiss, whispering against them, “I love you.”

I can’t keep my lips off his; I’m kissing the unresponsive lips for dear life, clinging to him as if he’s an anchor, keeping me from being swept away. He’s still as I whisper desperately that I love him, I don’t care if he doesn’t love me, I need to be with him.

Suddenly, he’s kissing me back, the previously cold and unresponsive lips taking each kiss and responding with equally warm ardor and fervor.

We’re be swept away by emotions we don’t understand and neither one of us gives a damn because it feels so right.

I can’t stop loving him. I’m kissing him and ravishing him, knowing that even if he wants to leave me, he can’t, he loves me and he wants me.

There’s an exhilarating feeling I’ve never felt, knowing he loves me, that he can’t leave me because he loves me.

There are tears in his eyes as I whisper, my lips close to his ear, my breath tickling the curls that curve around his ear, “I love you.”

The tears are unstoppable, spilling down my cheeks in a warm current, knowing that he loves me and that he wants to know it. That he can show his love, say it.

He’s confused, why am I crying? His hands are hesitant, unsure if he should continue, his lips thoughtful as he pauses before kissing me.

I shake my head, smiling through my tear and pull him closer, begging for him to continue.

This time when we make love its different than ever before. Before it was a desperate act of passion, needing and wanting, emotions confusing us, feelings tumbling around in us, not understood.

Now, it’s an act of love and devotion. Every movement I make is for him; every moment he makes is for me.

It’s all giving, no taking and all the pleasure is from the knowledge he loves me and that he knows I love him.

I love him.

He loves me.

He wants to love me.

He wants it to be known.

I love him.