Her whisper: a muffled, trembling attempt at honesty; a guarded stab at a point she desperately wants to make. But the world, being loud and harsh and without pity, distracts him, so he never hears her words.
The passed moment, the missed opportunity to see eye to eye, maybe it will amount to naught. Perhaps it will never be anything more than a whisper. But she worries: about a missed foothold, a small slip that will send a single small rock down the cliff face of their shared existence—that will result in a landslide of gravel, of dust and scree and boulder that will demolish the world below.
She worries about her many past missteps, and the feeling—it does not pass.
-gj