To confess or not to confess, that is the question.
To confess is to risk everything, to stick my hand in the burning flame to see if it would hurt. It most certainly would, unless somehow the flame does not burn, but bring warmth.
Not to confess is to lie cold awake at night, wondering what could have been--- wondering it was better to risk it all for some possible warmth. From that view it seems like to confess is the answer, it is the only way to sleep soundly at night. But wait, we have not discussed the pain.
To burn your hand is to feel black blended terror, mixed from insecurity, humiliation, and self-deprecation, rush to tear away your body vein by vein. The time to face him counts down like your alarm in the morning, the sound piercing the silent air and pushing you awake into a freezing cold world where thousands of little daggers slowly pushing into your skin—not daggers but the judging eyes of people.
From that, it seems to like not confessing is better, daggers are far more hurtful than a cold bed will ever be.
Tonight I shut my eyes and shiver from the coldness.