What I almost said at the door

You had your hand on the frame and I had my coat half-buttoned and the hallway light was doing that thing where it flickers but never goes out. I counted. I counted to four and then I lost track because you said my name in the voice you only use when you are tired enough to mean it.

I was going to say I knew. I was going to say I had known for weeks and that the knowing was the part that hurt, not the thing itself. I was going to say please don't be careful with me, be honest with me, those are not the same.

I said something else. I don't remember what. I remember the door closing in two stages, the latch first, then the click. I remember the bus shelter at the corner and how the rain had stopped without my noticing.

I am writing this down so that the version I keep is at least accurate. The version I keep is that I almost said it. The version I keep is that almost is its own country and I have lived there a long time.