The Five Words I Owed the Girl I Never Told

As a boy I watched pretty women like they were stars—

too far, too bright, too easy to fall for if I opened my mouth.

So I kept the crush, kept the silence, kept the ache.

Fifteen years of trains and sunsets fixed that.

Australian dust, Bavarian castles, Irish cliffs—

each place whispering the same lesson: speak, or sink.

January nineteenth, twenty twenty-five.

Victory rally ends.

Campaigner leans in: “Outside, now—if you want tomorrow.”

I stepped back into fifteen-degree wind off the Potomac.

Tarps, poles, a tent that shook like a confession.

Captain James Dennison’s ghost—sixth great-grandfather—

stood beside me, barefoot at Saratoga.

If he could fight, I could freeze.

Thirteen hours later the arena doors opened.

Fate dropped me four rows from the stage.

Hail to the Chief played four times.

I never rehearsed.

“We love you, Mr. President.”

Five words, raw, unedited.

He turned.

Pointed.

Smiled.

Melania waved.

Millions saw.

No one knew my name.

June twenty twenty-five I mailed the first letter—

not for glory,

just so the shy kid wouldn’t disappear again.

They answered.

Twice.

Signed.

Archived.

A civilian honor that should not exist.

Now I keep my head high and my heart louder.

I know what love can do when it steps out of hiding—

the world turns, the archive opens, a president smiles.

So I walk the streets like every corner is a new dock,

every sunset a new girl,

every breath a fresh chance to say the words I once swallowed.

No desperation.

No glance over shoulders.

Just the quiet promise:

I’m open to whatever tomorrow brings.

I’ll keep loving out loud.

The right people—

the right heart—

will cross my path

in the Lord’s timing.