I watch him move ahead of me, noting the way he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t fumble, doesn’t ask what he should do. He just knows. Somehow, he just knows. That’s what undoes me all over again. Being known like this in all my mess and need.
He’s not here to fix me, or to distract me with empty words. He’s here to stay. And that…that’s everything.
Once we’re in the living room, Cole lowers me gently onto the couch. The cushions are soft, but my body feels like it’s made of lead. My legs ache, and my stomach still twinges with those awful cramps. I close my eyes, trying to block out the pain, but it doesn’t quite work.
I try to breathe through it like the doctor said—deep inhales,slow exhales—but all I can manage are shallow puffs of air that catch in my throat. It’s a pain that settles deep in your bones, turning even the smallest movement into a battle.
I can feel Cole moving around behind me, his presence steady and constant. He’s quiet for a moment, probably trying to figure out what I need. I don’t want to make it hard for him. I want to tell him everything’s fine. But it’s not.
I’m not fine.
I feel like a flickering lightbulb—flickering on but barely holding steady. Sometimes I wonder if people like me ever truly become whole again or if we just get better at pretending to shine.
And somehow, just being here with him, feeling him nearby, makes everything feel a little less heavy. He’s here, and I’m not alone.
I hear footsteps, then the gentle rustling of something being placed on the coffee table in front of me. I crack my eyes open just in time to see him holding a bowl in his hands.
“Here, Sunshine,” he says, his voice soft. “I know you probably haven’t eaten. Thought you might want this.”
I glance at the bowl, and my heart stops for a second. It’s exactly what I needed. A bowl of cookie butter and saltines.
How did he remember?
It was such an insignificant detail, just a craving I’d mentioned once in passing during a rough day. I barely remembered saying it, but he did.
I stare at it for a moment, surprised. It’s like he somehow knew exactly what would make me feel a little better. The warmth of it, the simple comfort. I look up at him, my eyes filling with something I don’t know how to express.
“You remembered,” I whisper, my voice thick with gratitude and something else, something deeper.
“I always remember,” he says softly, his voice steady. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, and there’s something in it that makes me feel like everything might be okay. Maybe not right now, but maybe someday.
His words settle in me like a lullaby, wrapping around the jagged parts of my heart and smoothing them over.
I reach for the bowl, pulling it toward me, and start dipping the saltines into the cookie butter, taking small bites. It’s the simplest thing, but in this moment, it’s exactly what I need.
With every bite, I’m reminded there is still softness in the world. Not everything causes pain. Everything isn’t all broken.
Cole settles beside me on the couch, not asking questions, not rushing me. He just lets me be. It’s exactly what I need right now. The comfort of his presence, without any pressure.
I curl up next to him, my body leaning into his warmth. He wraps his arm around me, and I feel a sense of security that I didn’t know I was craving. The world outside fades away, and for the first time all night, I feel safe.
It’s not the safety that comes from locked doors or alarm systems. It’s the kind that comes from knowing someone sees you. Really sees you. And stays anyway.
As we sit there in the quiet, I talk, rambling about everything and nothing, as if none of the heartbreak between us matters anymore. The secret I’ve carried all these years feels distant now. Talking makes the silence easier to bear, and Cole listens. He takes in every word, every pause, every breath I take. Slowly, I start to feel the way I did when I was sixteen. Just a girl making small talk with the boy she loves, with nothing more complicated than that. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t care about the past or the future.
I tell him about the dream I had last week, the one where everything felt weightless and easy. I tell him about the fight I had with Mom. How I said too much and not enough at the same time. I tell him about the stupid video I watched that made me cry for no reason. And through it all, he listens, like every word matters. Like I matter.
And as the night wears on, my eyes get heavy. The cookie butter and saltines are long gone, but the comfort remains. Mybody is finally relaxing. My eyelids flutter, and I can feel myself drifting off to sleep.
But as I fade into sleep, I hear my voice, soft and vulnerable, whispering into the quiet. “I want you in my life, Cole. I want what we had back.”
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the soft sound of our breathing, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that I can feel pressed against me. Then finally, Cole’s voice breaks the silence.
“You have me, Kenna,” he whispers. “Always.”
And that’s all I need to hear. Because in that moment, it feels like everything will be okay.
Not perfect. Not painless. But okay. And that’s a start.
