“Meet me at the cliffs,” I told him, as if he’d really come and I’d really be waiting. “Bring all your secrets.  Everything you’ve ever lied about.  We’ll throw it all in the waves.”

His eyes had glinted in the fading light, a smile on his face that was far too easy to believe. “Dead of night,” he’d said, as if I’d really get out of bed and he’d really be awake. “I’ll be there with everything.”

And that was how we parted ways.  Him with the stuffed bags and me with my freedom.  It was always meant to end like this.

I don’t know why I’m out of my bed.  We both knew those plans were really a soft goodbye.  I think maybe it was the coward in me, not willing to say goodbye.  Maybe I got too used to the danger with him.  I’m not ready to face my thoughts alone.

The cliffs are a fearsome thing at night.  Moody and looming and much taller than they are at day.  It’s windy here, and though it isn’t cold, I’m glad I dressed warmly.  I don’t know why my heart is sinking, I knew I’d be alone.  I brought my secrets and my lies.  The waves below are far more gentle than they have a right to be.  I want them to crash my words to pieces and carry them away.

“I’m finally free,” I whisper, just to try it out. “And I don’t know what to do with it.”

A soft rush of water below wraps around my words and cradles them.  I sit on the edge and watch the small waves, as if I could see my words swimming in them, looking for a way to settle.  

The moon is nearly full, and everything is too bright for it to be the dead of night.  Everything is slightly off, slightly wrong, but not in a terrible way.  I don’t know why I feel so sad.  I didn’t lose anything, though much of it was at risk.  

“I lied.” I say, dropping the words like a stone. “I think it counts as a lie.  It feels like one.  I lied when I made plans instead of saying goodbye.”

I squint at the waves, as if I could see a ripple from my confession hitting the surface.  They pay no mind, rolling in and out like a mother rocking a sleeping child.

I think back to my secrets.  Or perhaps they weren’t secrets.  Perhaps I only call them such because there is no one to tell.

“I wish I’d said goodbye.”