During the day, I keep my distance. I follow her to work, handle my own business, then make sure she gets home safely. Most nights, dinner is waiting for her when she walks in, nothing dramatic, just something nice and warm. She talks to me through the cameras while she eats, while she moves around her apartment, while she unwinds.
I listen.
I can tell there’s something she wants to ask me. It sits just beneath the surface, in the pauses she leaves, in the way her voice changes when she almost says it and stops.
She’s holding back.
I don’t need her to say it out loud…
She wants to see me.
The thought tightens in my chest every time it crosses my mind. I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t undo once I step into it. She seems to genuinely care about me, not just what we do at night, but me. She likes talking to me. Likes my presence. Likes that I’m there. She can feel my scarswhen she touches me. She traces them with her fingers, kisses them without hesitation, like they’re just another part of me instead of something broken. I want to believe that will translate when the lights are on. That she won’t look at me and see the damage first.
But…I’m not ready yet.
I’m closer than I was yesterday.
Closer than I ever planned to be.
Today, after I follow her through her morning commute and watch her disappear into her building, I don’t linger like I usually do. Once I know she’s inside and safe, I turn away and head in the opposite direction.
She never placed the grocery order.
I noticed. Of course I did. Her fridge was still mostly empty when I checked earlier, the same few staples shoved toward the back like an afterthought. She eats when she remembers. Or when I remind her.
That won’t cut it.
I drive down to the grocery store, and it’s busy and loud in a way that grates on me, but I move through it with purpose. I know what she likes. I’ve looked through her pantry, her trash to see what things she leaves empty and which boxes she never opens. I grab what she actually eats, not what she thinks she should. Real food. Comfort food. Things she won’t forget about until they go bad.
A child screams an aisle over, and I look in the direction; that’s when I notice the decorations.
Red everywhere. Hearts. Balloons. Baskets wrapped in cellophane. Words like love and forever printed too large, too loud. It takes me a second to connect the dots.
Valentine’s Day is a week away.
I’ve never paid attention to it before, never had a reason to. It always felt like a performance for other people—expensive dinners, forced sentiment, expectations I never wanted to meet.
Until now.
The idea settles in my chest slowly, deliberately. Nothing flashy. Something private…just for her. I don’t know exactly what it looks like yet, but I know how it should feel. Safe. Intentional. I need to show her that I chose her—and will keep choosing her.
I add a few things from the Valentine’s display section to the cart. When I get back to her apartment, I let myself in easily and put the groceries away carefully. I make sure to stack most things where she’ll actually see them.
I take my time with the other items, tuck them into the cupboard above the fridge, the one she never opens because she can’t reach it without a chair. I know that because I watched her try once, huff in annoyance, then give up. She won’t find them by accident. She won’t even think to look.
Good.
With that handled, I lock the apartment and head to the gym. It’s a part of my routine. It has been for a while. The gym is one of the few places where my body feels like it belongs to me again, where I can push against limits instead of feeling trapped by them. I work through my sets methodically, ignoring the occasional glance, the curiosity I’ve learned to live with, the irritating pull of my scars as I stretch.
Afterward, I hit the showers and head to the locker room to change, assuming I’m alone. The space is quiet, familiar.
Then I hear voices. I look up to see a few guys come in as I’m pulling my shirt over my head. I feel it before I hear it…the shift, the pause. One of them reacts before he thinks better of it.
“Jesus, man,” he says, staring. “What happened to you?”
I freeze for half a second, then straighten. My jaw tightens. I’m tired. I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but experience has taught me that silence only makes it worse.
“My F-22 imploded mid-flight,” I say flatly. “Had to eject over a forested mountain in hostile territory. The parachute malfunctioned.” The words come out sharp, clipped. “Took over a year and more than a few surgeries to walk right again,” I add, tugging my shirt down. “But hey. Makes for a hell of a story, right?”
