Something Stupid

So I was listening to old mix CDs (remember those?) and came across a song I barely remember burning.
It's called "Something Stupid" and performed by Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidman.
Ironic how I didn't recognize it at first listen, but how apropos it was and still is.

"And though its just a line to you, for me its true/ It never seemed so right before...
I practice every day to find some clever lines to say/ To make the meaning come through/ But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late/ And I'm alone with you.
And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid
Like: I love you"

Not too long ago this was very much my story. I think back and realize that that inebriated but very clear 'I love you' was a turning point. I can't spend time going over all that's happened between the whispered words and now. But even now, the ripples are still going. Isn't that crazy? The theory of a butterfly effect. That everything has an effect on everything else and reverberates through time and across all boundaries.

So back to the topic at hand. I wouldn't classify myself as a 'gusher'. You know the gushers; those people that must remind you that they love you every time you speak. I don't have anything against them, mind you. Some of my greatest loves are gushers. But that just isn't me.
But I'm not afraid to say it, though. I only say it if I mean it and when I feel the words pressing against my throat to be released. The love is always there, but sometimes there's a moment or a thought that sends an overflow of love and I have to express it in a tangible way.
That's how it happened that one night. We were lying on the floor, in the dark, a little past buzzed but not quite drunk. I was staring out the window, watching the lightning, listening to the thunder, and wondering where the rain was. "What an odd storm", I thought to myself. And in that moment I couldn't help myself. I'll admit that I weighed the option of not saying it. But I realized it would be better to say it now and be able to pass it off as drunken affection, than if I held it in and it burst out at an awkward and uncomfortable juncture. Well, you know what I did next. But it's what he did next that shook me.
No.
It's what he didn't realize he did next that shook me. He stuttered. He wasn't speaking when it happened, but I felt it in the air, in his spirit, in his soul- like an electric crackle across my skin. An instantaneous pause, that I might have missed if it had been anyone but him. And, oh, how it hurt. I will never be able to deny that. That hiccup within himself made me wish I'd been born mute; anything to avoid having said something to make him skip a beat before responding.
I won't go into the response, either. I heard it, I remember it. It's emblazoned in my mind. But it's really not important. Not to me, anyway.
All this to say that after that night, nothing was the same. It was very subtle, but I was always a fan of subtlety and if he was doing it consciously, he did it in the best way he could. He claimed not to remember that bit of conversation that night and I claimed to believe him. Why shouldn't I? He has no reason to lie, does he?
But I'll never forget my something stupid: the one time my 'gift of gab' and my unwavering bravery in the face of the unknown answer turned against me. My butterfly effect. My something stupid. My unwanted 'I love you.'