This man, in the middle of the night, made time to take me to see the sun.
For reasons unknown, he prepared a place for me in his home.
He showed me nearly every room, told me they were mine.
He fixes me breakfast and runs me baths and treats me with a precision I wouldn’t think possible for someone his size.
I don’t understand any of this.
He is holding my hand and my hair. He iscloseand in control.
But he has not moved me in closer or touched me inappropriately even though he’s blindfolded and could blame a lot on being unable to see if he wanted to.
Even just earlier today, when he asked me to check his messages, he accidentally touched my stomach when he handed me his phone.
And he apologized.
“I don’t…” I shudder when a breeze hits me, and he blocks the wind with his long sleeve.
“You don’t?” he coaxes.
“I don’t understand.”
“You were made for me. What else is there to understand? Of course you are precious and deserving of everything.”
“Made for you?” I echo, sniffling. I don’t understand why I’m having a breakdown right now. On a cliff. Where people should absolutely not have breakdowns. I’m probably just tired.
Or, you know, maybe I was kidnapped a day and a half ago.
Yeah, on second thought, having a breakdown right now seems reasonable enough.
Fighting through the brokenness, I say, “Like…a soulmate?”
The words sound stupid leaving my mouth.
And the longer silence fills the space between us, the stupider I feel.
I drop my face. “I-I’m sorry. That was dumb. I don’t know what I’m saying. I—”
To bring my face back up, he pulls my hair.
An unwelcome sensation flits through my brain, shutting me up.
“My love,” he says, filling his chest with air. Letting the breath out slowly, he murmurs, “Have I… Did I not tell you…we were soulmates?”
I blink.
Um.
No.
Can’t say that’s come up.
I whisper, “No?”
He swears.
Untangling us, he clamps a hand to his mouth and begins pacing around me. Heat highlighted by the rising sun deepens his cheeks until the porcelain is splotched with red.
