I hate fighting. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. It makes me feel heavy and tired, like a light has gone out inside me; like a darkness has come inside instead. Like a Dementor.
There is that feeling, that fear of saying the wrong thing, or saying the right thing in the wrong way. But you know it will come out, because he will badger you and badger you until it flies out your mouth in frustration, before you have the chance to moderate it; before you have the chance to take a breath.
But the silence is worse. The silence beforehand when you know the inevitable is coming, it’s peeking over the horizon like the sunrise. There is a dull weight in your chest that just makes you want to go to sleep and not bother. But you know you have to bother, because if this argument doesn’t tear you apart then the unsaid will chip you apart from the inside; a slow stranglehold that will steal the life and love from you.
It’s better to say something now and regret it later. Perhaps later will be fine after all.