Put the negative thoughts into the box. Find a counter thought. “I deserve compassion,” she whispered and moved to the pot of gold at her hip. A tiny box around that, her very first tattoo.
You shouldn’t have come home. You’re not tough enough for this.
“I’ve been through a lot of shit, and I survived. Life is worth living, even with the shit in it.” The vine now.
He doesn’t love you.
“I can love myself.” Another flower. “I’m a good person.” Her finger pressed deeper into her flesh. “I can keep figuring it out. I’m doing the best I can.”
She arched her back and reached behind her, though the twist was awkward. She bled her feelings into every design but the compass was her favorite tattoo, with its watercolor splash and blurred pigment, like a drawing left out in the rain.
She couldn’t quite contort enough to draw a box here, so she stroked it. “I deserve compassion,” she repeated, and then kept repeating it until she could feel the knot inside her unravel.
It was a tiny easing, but it was enough to stave off her panic spiral. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall, not releasing contact with her compass.
She wasn’t sure if she fully believed the words her therapist had given her to keep in her arsenal, but they helped. And one day, if she said them enough times, maybe she could absolutely believe them.
Her phone beeped, shattering the silence of the room. She wanted to ignore it, but it was late enough that it could be an emergency. Her movements were sluggish as she got her feet.
Nicholas. A new message, right below those damn coordinates.
I was going to throw a rock against your window, but I’m not sure if it’s yours.
Herwindow?
She texted back.???
His reply was immediate.Look outside.
No. He couldn’t possibly be...
She walked over to the window, brushed the curtain aside, and peered into the darkness. She was situated on the side of the house, a large lawn right below.
And on that lawn stood Nicholas, looking up at her. The moon was full, gilding his dark hair and the sharp angles of his face. He’d changed out of his suit into a pair of worn jeans and a light-colored, long-sleeved sweater.
What the hell?
She tried to yank open the window. The damn thing was stuck, dried paint sealing the jambs.
“What are you—?” she started to say loudly, but then realized she might wake up her mom and aunt by screaming through the glass. She typed into her phone instead.What are you doing??
He glanced down at the phone in his hands and responded.I wanted to see you.
So you’re lurking? I thought we established you’re shitty at that.
His half-smile made her want to smile back. Instead, she scowled.
I think I’m doing a pretty good job.
No lurker wears white. You wear black.
You want to meld into the shadows.
He ran his hand over his chest. Ugh, why did he have such a hot chest?The moon is full tonight. I wouldn’t be able to meld even if I wore black.
Her fingers flew.Then you should leave lurking to the professionals. There’s no value in it for amateurs.
I don’t know. It gets your attention.
