If Only I Had Told Her

by Laura Nowlin

This is heaven: her forehead pressed into me, her head under my arm, and my hand on her shoulder. We found each other by instinct.

It is cosmically unfair how beautiful Autumn is. It puts me at such a disadvantage. Her brilliant, goofy brain was already enough. Why must she have a perfect face too?

love for her is the closest thing I have to religion. But it’s okay that she doesn’t feel the same. I’m fine. I can handle it.

My devotion to Autumn is engraved on my very being. I am in awe of her. I will sit in the stands and cheer her on in life as her most ardent admirer. I know I will always love her in the same way I know I’ll always need oxygen.

She is made of the stories she has read.

My Autumn.

No, Phineas, not yours.

“Well.” I pause to make sure I’m saying it right. “I’m driving, so on one level, I’m thinking about visibility, speed, and car spacing, and I’m making adjustments with the steering wheel, but I’m not really thinking about any of those things. I’m really thinking”—that you’re so close to me—“about our conversation. Meanwhile, my brain is also telling my lungs to breathe and my heart to beat, but I’m not thinking about any of that either, not at all. My brain makes sure my body is doing all this, while I’m thinking about”—how much I adore you—“whether I’m explaining any of this well.”

“Oh, Autumn.” My friend. My dream. My love.