Mia leans her head against my shoulder. “He’s not leaving. He’s all in.”
Sophia adds, “He doesn’ttolerateyour healing—he honors it. And honestly, from what we see? Elijah looks at you like youhung the damn moon.”
Mia leans her hip against the counter beside me. “You should see how he talks about you when you’re not around. Like you’re the sun. Like he can’t believe you evenlookedat him, let alone let him love you.”
I swallow hard.
“He is the sun,” I whisper. “And I feel like I’m this storm cloud that just keeps dragging behind him.”
Mia gently taps her glass against mine. “You’re not a storm, Ava. You’re someone who survived one. And Elijah’s not just patient because he’s a saint. He’s patient because he loves you. Because hewantsto be.”
I look between them. Their eyes are soft. Knowing. Unshaken by my mess.
I’m used to people tolerating me. Not cherishing me.
But these two? And Elijah? They make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, I’ve been wrong about what I’m allowed to receive.
I laugh. It’s wet and shaky and small. But it’s real. “You’re not putting him through anything. Hechoseto walk beside you. And the way he looks at you?” She smiles. “He’d do it a thousand times over.”
“He is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say.
“And you’re one of the best things that’s ever happened tohim,” Sophia says. “Don’t forget that part.”
“I love him so much.” I say slowly. Mia smiles. “Then trust him to stay. The way he already does.”
The tears finally fall, slow and quiet. Not because I’m falling apart—but because, maybe for the first time in a long time, I’m being reminded that I’m not the problem. I’m the survivor. I'm a warrior.
And the love I’ve found? I didn’t imagine it. I built it. Brick by messy, painful, beautiful brick.
Mia wraps her arms around me from behind. Sophia slides in from the side. We hold each other in the middle of the kitchen like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The sauce bubbles on the stove. Sophia turns the heat down. The playlist flips to some soft indie track about coming undone and being loved anyway.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel broken.
Just… healing. Slowly.
***
The pasta’s cold by the time we eat it, but no one cares.
We’re on the kitchen floor—legs tangled, wine half gone, soft music still humming in the background. It’s not the night I expected, but it might be the one I needed.
My body feels lighter. My chest doesn’t ache like it did when I walked in tonight.
Something shifted. Not everything. Butenough.
I trace the rim of my wine glass with my finger, staring at the shadows flickering across the countertop. Then I say it, almost too quietly to hear:
“I think I’m going to talk to someone.”
The room stills. Not in a tense way. Just attentive. Open.
Mia’s eyes widen, hopeful. “Like… a therapist?”
I nod, slow but certain. “Yeah. I think… I’m ready.”
Sophia softens beside me. “That’s huge, Ava.”
