Tim Manley

It was a spring night in 2008, and I'm lying underneath the covers next to my best friend, Ben.

This had become kind of normal for the past few months that we slept next to each other with this one-foot space between us.

We were pioneers of a new masculinity, comfortable expressing our platonic care for each other, no concern for homophobic social norms.

And I was totally in love with him.

Not like a friend love, but like a love, like when I felt alone, I thought about Ben and it made everything okay.

And I decided that tonight was the night I was going to tell him.

And he's lying next to me, but he's facing the other way.

So all I can see is the street light on the curve of his shoulder.

And I start to say something, but the words stop in my throat.

And so I reach out my hand, but no matter how much I will it, I can't move my hand closer to him.

And I can feel the words inside of me.

They're like physical objects that are like all piled up and like pressing against me.

But I can't say them and my body is immobile.

In the morning, go to bed, wake up, Ben makes us some granola and yogurt and I sit at the kitchen table silently and underneath the table I'm massaging my own hands because when I woke up I had these weird tender nodules like on my palm and in between my fingers.

These like red bumps that hurt when I pressed them but I kept pressing them.

And when I went home, I had to lie down on my bed because my legs hurt so bad.

And when I lie down, I looked at them, my legs were all swollen and they had these red splotches on them.

And on my thighs were those like bumps again.

My roommate came in and she said that the bumps were my emotions trapped inside of me.

And if I could just learn how to say the things that were stuck inside of me, my body would show that.