He says it so plainly that it shreds whatever paper-thin armor I’ve got left.
I don’t answer right away. My throat is too tight, my heart too full, my pulse too loud. I lie there beside him in the grass, staring at the same stars he is, wondering how the hell we ended up here. Not here, as in this patch of grass or this pocket of time, but here in this state of almost—this unbearable middle ground between past and present.
I didn’t expect this to happen tonight. I didn’t expect to say anything, and now it’s all out there. The mess of it. My parents. The damage. The disordered eating I can’t always keep at bay. The ache of being too much and never enough in the same breath.
It’s not like I’ve never said the words aloud before. I’ve been in enough therapy circles and doctors’ offices to know how to list my issues clinically. But this is different. This ishim.Now he knows I’m all cracks underneath.
“Blue,” Damien says after a while, voice rough as if he’s holding back, “do you remember that summer when you got sick and couldn’t train, and you thought you were gonna fall behind?”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t,” he says simply. “You came back and beat half the team’s lap records. You’ve always pushed through, even when you shouldn’t have had to. Even when no one made it safe for you to stop.”
My throat burns again, but it’s worse this time because I don’t want his praise. I want his arms. I want a fucking time machine so I can go back. I want to grab my own shoulders and shake myself and sayhe comes back. He still sees you. You’re still here.
I stare at the stars until my eyes sting.
“I used to think if I could just be perfect, they’d finally see me. That if I won enough medals or got thin enough or acted“normal”enough, they’d stop looking at me as if I were some broken ornament in their otherwise curated life.”
Damien doesn’t say anything, but I still feel his gaze. With an exhale, I turn my head to look at him again, finally giving in to the pull.
He’s already looking at me. Those brown eyes bore into mine, and I force myself to keep looking.
“You ever feel like no matter how loudly you scream, the people who are supposed to love you the most just…” I trail off, swallowing around the lump in my throat, “They just don’t hear you?”
His jaw clenches, and he exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says. “I know that feeling.”
Of course he does. We’ve both got mothers who cared more about appearances than anything else. His mom traded affection for status. Mine bartered love for control. It’s always been this unspoken thing between us—mutual damage passed down as if they were heirlooms.
“Sometimes I think the only time I ever really felt heard was when I was with you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Damien doesn’t move, but his expression changes—his eyes darken, soften, and narrow just slightly.
I shouldn’t have said that.
I look away fast, cheeks burning, the air around me suddenly too tight. My hands are shaking again. I curl them into the grass and pretend I’m just cold.
He sits up a little, leaning on one elbow. “Noah…”
“Don’t,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to—” I pause, then shake my head. “I don’t know what I meant.”
“I heard you,” he says quietly. “I always did.”
We fall silent again. The lake ripples with a soft breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. The world keeps spinning, indifferent to what is happening between us right now. I stare at the space between us, wondering if he feels it too.
The ache.
The gravity.
The constant pull ofalmost.
“I’m not good at… this,” I admit, waving vaguely between us. “People. Connection. I mean, I can mask. I do it all the time. But it’s exhausting.”
His brow furrows slightly. “You don’t have to do that with me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I still do. I can’t help it. It’s… automatic.”
He sits up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees, and turns to face me. The moonlight softens the harsh lines of his face,making him look younger. Almost vulnerable. “I’m glad you asked me to hide with you.”
