The door opens, and I grind my teeth against the rising tension in my body. A woman in a navy coat steps in, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Morning,” I say in a cheery tone.Fake. Fake. Fake.
“I saw your window,” she says, touching the corner of a table with books displayed. “Do you have anything for a teenager who’s… figuring things out?”
There’s a quiet hope in her voice.
“I do,” I say, walking her to the growing queer section. “Nothing too heavy.” I hand her two paperbacks. “Promise.”
I clear my throat. “I also have a small section here for parents, guides on how to help your child while they’re finding themselves.”
When she looks at me, I see her eyes are brimming with tears. “That would be great, thank you,” she says softly. I ring her up, tuck a free bookmark inside, and she leaves with a little wave.
The small interaction helps me breathe. Knowing I can help someone, that my store is a safe space.
I keep myself busy, and the rest of the day goes by in a blur.
At closing, I flip the sign and press my palm to the glass. I close my eyes and press my forehead into the cool material.
Keep me safe. Even from my own mind.
Upstairs, I wash my hands with the hottest water I can stand. I pull them away before I can do any real damage, the pain a fleeting distraction. I smooth my hair and switch cardigans—to my favorite one. It’s falling apart, but I need that small comfort.
“Hey,” Noah calls out, his voice warm. As if nothing between us has shifted. As if last night’s kiss is still lingering for him the way it was for me, before my mind tried to eviscerate it.
I move into the kitchen as he steps in. The evening light sifts through the window, catching on the lighter strands in the hair peeking out from his backward cap, golden threads illuminated. The sight makes my throat burn. He’s so handsome, so perfect.
Why can’t I be good enough for him? Be normal enough to keep him? Why do I have to have days like this, where I feel like I’m drowning just from breathing?
“You went without me this morning,” he says casually, nodding toward my running shoes by the door. I hear the question in his tone, though; he’s wondering why I went without him.
“Needed to clear my head,” I answer truthfully, keeping my tone neutral as I busy myself with the kettle. The whistle is thin and high, the sound piercing my skull.
I face him as we talk—or rather, he talks, telling me about his day, and I offer short answers. I feel him noticing the gaps, the way the air between us is strained. He doesn’t push, which is somehow worse. He should be angry with me. I’m angry with me.
Then he reaches up, pulls his cap from his head, and runs a hand through his hair.
It’s an ordinary action. But my body doesn’t care. I’ve been on high alert all day, waiting for something to set me off. My chest seizes, and I flinch—a small jerk, barely a breath, but enough. Enough for him to see.
I glance up and catch the hurt flicker across his face. It twists in my stomach. But before I can stammer out an apology, the hurt shifts. His brow furrows in something else entirely.
Understanding.
It’s worse than the hurt, knowing he knows what that reflex means. All the shame I live with rising to the surface, making my skin crawl.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes searching my face. “You okay?”
I shake my head, my throat too tight for words. I’m not okay, I feel so small, weak, worthless. Nothing even happened today to make me feel like this.
It's not fair. On him. On me.
There’s a stinging in the bridge of my nose; he shouldn’t be apologizing. My jittery fingers tighten around the mug, trying to ground myself in its warmth. Hot tea sloshes over my knuckles. I don’t even notice it until he reaches for a towel and sets it beside my hand, not touching me.
I hate that he didn’t touch me, I love that he didn’t touch me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble after clearing my throat, annoyed with myself for constantly saying those words but needing to. He didnothing wrong. I’m the one who’s all wrong. I’m nothing but broken parts that won’t fit anymore.
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me. I just—” I swallow hard, and tears fill my eyes, but I sniff them back. “It’s been a bad day. Sometimes I can’t control my reactions. Old memories get stuck in my mind. And I can’t… stop them. I’m sorry, Noah.” I take a trembling breath. “I’m sorry.” Saying those words over and over feels like reopening an old wound.
