Ali
Ali blinked awake to warm light and an even warmer body wrapped around hers. Dylan’s arm was heavy across her waist, his face pressed into the back of her neck, his breath steady and soft. For a few blissful seconds, there was nothing but the rhythm of his breathing and the muted hum of birds outside.
Then came the ache behind her ribs.
Last night came flooding back—Jenna, her panic, Dylan’s duffle, the suffocating sobs, the truth. Her stomach turned, but before she could spiral, his arm tightened.
“You okay?” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.
She nodded, then shook her head. “Kind of?”
He kissed her shoulder gently. “We can talk.”
So they did. Wrapped in sheets and sunlight, they talked.
About BPD. About how hard she’s worked to regulate and unlearn all the instinctual fears, the catastrophizing. She admitted that sometimes, it still felt like a war inside her head—fighting the voice that said she was too much, not enough, destined to ruin everything.
Dylan listened.
Then Dylan told her about therapy. About the first time he sat across from a counselor on campus, arms crossed and jaw locked, not knowing where to start. How it took months to even say her name without his chest seizing up. How he tried to deny the PTSD diagnosis. How it was scary and confusing for him. But, how he stuck with it anyway—first out of necessity, then because it actually started to help.
He told her about the breathing techniques that calmed his spirals. The nightmares that still came sometimes, but less often now. The guilt he’d carried. The fear. The work he’d done so he could love her without letting that fear control him.
Ali listened.
She squeezed his hand, tears stinging behind her eyes—not from sadness, but from the quiet awe of being seen like this. Loved like this. Not in spite of the mess, but through it.
They sat with it all. No judgment. No rush.
And when it grew too heavy, Ali shifted the energy the way she always did—with a breath and a bit of light.
“So,” she said, nudging his chest. “Pancakes and emotional maturity? Or pancakes and farmer’s market?”
He cracked a smile. “Can we do all three?”
Downtown Honeyshore buzzed with a slow kind of life on Saturday mornings. Booths lined the squares with local honey, homemade soaps, fresh bread, and succulents in painted pots. A troubadour played covers of early 2000s songs, and toddlers squealed over kettle corn and cheese straw samples.
Ali wore a breezy white dress and her favorite crossbody. Her Golden Goose shoes comfy and worn in. Dylan kept a low profile in a navy baseball cap and sunglasses, but still looked like a walking billboard for hot boyfriend energy in his soft teal T-shirt and gray joggers.
He carried the reusable tote like it weighed nothing, full of peaches, sourdough, and some overly expensive jam Ali had absolutely been upsold on.
“You’re such a sucker,” Dylan teased, leaning in close as they walked past a flower stand.
“I like being romanced by artisanal preserves,” she said, biting back a smile. “Let me live.”
They paused at a corner booth draped in wildflowers, and Ali pulled out her phone. “Smile,” she said, already snapping the pic.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “We’re doing selfies now?”
“We are when you look this good in natural light.”
He kissed her temple before she could pull away.
Back at the house, Dylan ducked into the shower, whistling something that might’ve been “Love Story” while Ali curled up in her bed with her phone.
She scrolled to the picture she’d taken earlier—Dylan’s arm slung around her shoulder, both of them squinting slightly in the sun, cheeks pink, eyes soft. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.
Her thumb hovered for a second, then she opened Instagram.
