Slow Movements

He is so close.

I stand by the doorway of his bedroom, observing him as he tries constructing a movie case out of a pile of wooden planks. Even in confusion his hands are an art form all their own -indecisive while seamless in their slow movements, reminding me of the first time he touched me: our third date at the movies with my heart pumping loud enough for his ears to catch and my stomach sick with nerves. I have only been with one other guy before Owen popped up in my life. I was the desperate hitch hiker he decided to take for a ride, and what a ride it has been. Those hands of his have more confidence since then, and I'm only half as nervous. I still catch myself questioning whether it's ok to check him out. He looks remarkably handsome in this lighting with his furrowed brunette brows, perched above his honey speckled hazel eyes, which complement his freckle-dusted skin...

He is too close.

A foot away from where he sits on the beige carpet with his skinny legs crossed resides a bombshell: A folded piece of paper behind his nightstand. I had placed it there months ago in a fit of boldness and certainty, and while I can take it back at any time and rip it to shreds, a bit of that courage remains. The echoes of my loved ones saying 'it's completely normal to tell him already' are loud speakerphones in my head, overpowering any thoughts in the way, yet I remain utterly lost.
Why can we not say "I love you" after ten months of dating?

Owen glances back at me, a look of relief soaking into his face,
"I am so happy I finally got this, I've been needing a new movie case for months."

"I know baby, it's all you've been talking about."

He smiles, the meager smile that can lift a heart. I've always believed the most valuable moments to witness are the candid snapshots, and the mental photo book I've dedicated to Owen is crowded with them. When he puts in his earplugs before he goes to bed because he's such a light sleeper, or when he undresses for me and has to fold his clothes neatly next to his sneakers, or how his laugh starts off loudly but trails off to silence while his face stays crinkled. His level of comfort around me makes me feel similar to a stream of smoke, noticed yet morphing into his natural surroundings. To be so disguised and apparent simultaneously is the ultimate trust. Whenever his fingertips graze my palm I have the most delicate and abundant presence at once. Luck cannot express what I have found in Owen.

My mind leads me back to the dusty piece of notebook paper in close proximity. "I love you" comes and goes too effortlessly now, the true meaning lost before it has a chance to be understood. Those words are incredibly dense and life changing; the few I have said it to who left still haunt me. I do not want Owen to be another one of those ghosts.

The questions are crowding my head: Is love designed to be all encompassing? Is this who I have been waiting for all along? Is it ok to feel so unsure? I have no idea, but if he discovers that confession right now, I am not ready to own up to it. He doesn't need to know yet.