I imagine this is how Kate felt before her affair begins…
We don’t talk anymore.
I’m not sure when that started, but it’s as if our words huddle in our mouths, as afraid as we are of releasing them.
In the company of others, we laugh and vocalize, capable of using our words. We are verbose and loquacious, seemingly drunk on the lilt of our own accents. So why, when we retire to quiet spaces, do our expressions dim as quickly as the light switch on the wall?
Anything would be better, I think, than the rambling mutterings of frustrated hearts.
Our quiet, our unspoken is tearing us apart.