His eyes soften. “Fear isn’t the enemy,” he murmurs. “It’s the reminder you’ve still got something to fight for.”
The line wedges itself deep in my chest, glowing quietly like a spark in a dark room.
“I used to pray for the fear to stop,” I admit, voice trembling. “Now I just pray I survive it.”
He reaches for me then, fingers brushing mine where they clutch the blanket.
“You already are,” he says. “Every breath you take is defiance. Every choice you make—every time you sayno more—that’s you surviving.”
The words hit harder than I expect. “You make it sound like being broken is something to be proud of.”
He smiles faintly, a little crooked. “Maybe it is. Maybe being broken just means you lived through something that tried to end you—and failed.”
I blink fast, trying to clear the sting from my eyes. “You really believe that?”
He nods slowly, gaze steady. “Yeah. Because I’m looking at the proof.”
The quiet that follows isn’t empty anymore. It’s soft. Safe. The kind of silence that holds you instead of swallowing you whole.
After a moment, his voice breaks it gently. “You ever think fear can be beautiful?”
I tilt my head. “Beautiful?”
He smirks, that boyish smile that makes the air shift.
“Yeah. Because when you’re scared, it means you still have hope. If you didn’t, there’d be nothing left to lose.”
My chest tightens. “You make it sound like being afraid is…allowed.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping low, rough in the quiet. “Because it is, Dove. Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s loving something enough to face it anyway.”
He passes me his phone, I scroll slowly, heart pounding, looking at all the different pizza images. There’s one with cheese and something green, and one with little circles of red meat. I tap the picture before I lose my nerve. “That one,” I murmur.
“Good choice.” He grins, hitting a few buttons. “Pepperoni. Classic.”
I pull the blanket higher around me, curling into it. He puts his phone down and glances at the TV. “You ever picked a movie before?”
I shake my head.
“Well,” he says, picking up the remote, “tonight’s the night.”
He scrolls through rows of bright images and moving words, stopping at random ones to describe them in that deep, easy voice of his.
“This one’s about space. This one’s a murder mystery. This one’s a dog that breaks your heart in the last five minutes—so, no.”
I laugh before I mean to. It bursts out, light and strange, and for a second I forget I’m supposed to be quiet. I forget I’m supposed to be small. He glances at me, and his smile softens.
“Go on,” he says, nodding to the screen. “Pick one.”
My hand trembles when I take the remote. It feels heavy, foreign. I click until I find something gentle—people dancing under lights, music soft and bright.
“That one,” I whisper.
“Romantic,” he teases. “Didn’t see that coming.”
I curl beneath the blanket, the glow from the TV painting the room in soft colors. I should be happy, maybe even proud. But instead, tears burn behind my eyes. They come slow, uninvited. Not from sadness—something deeper. The simple kindness of it all—the pizza, the movie, the space to choose—it breaks me in a way nothing else ever has.
A sound escapes me—half-sob, half-breath—and I shake my head. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” I whisper.
