When it lets me live, really live, it can be wonderful. But sometimes it still reaches for old versions of me I don’t want to be anymore. The version who could look at salad dressing and hear a voice in her head whispertoo much. The version who would punish herself for softness. The one who used to believe she had to disappear piece by piece to be worthy of taking up space at all.
The version who let ugly thoughts sink their claws in so deep she started questioning whether her life was worth living.
It was.
It is.
And while Grayson helped me see parts of myself more clearly, he didn’t save me from that. I did that work. I fought for myself. I clawed my way back to the surface with therapists and doctors and the kind of effort no one sees unless they’ve lived it too.
I know that matters.
I know it matters that I found pieces of myself on my own before I gave my heart to someone else.
Because it means when I say that I trust Grayson, I trust him with more than my body. I trust him with the parts of me I had to rebuild.
A movement at the end of the sidewalk catches my attention, and my breath sticks in my throat.
Grayson.
His hands are shoved into the pockets of his shorts, hood pulled up, head slightly bowed. Even from here, I can see it—the weariness in the way he carries himself, the heaviness in his shoulders.
He looks more defeated than I’ve ever seen him.
Worse than after a loss. Worse than after a bad game.
And even though I know I needed the time, even though I know I wasn’t wrong for taking it, seeing the hurt on his face makes something twist painfully in my chest.
I don’t want him to look like that. I don’t want to be the reason he does.
He stops in front of me.
He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend this week hasn’t gotten to him.
He just stands there with his shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s bracing for a hit he already decided he deserves, and looks at me with eyes that hold so much quiet pain it makes my own chest ache.
There are dark circles under them. Deeper than usual. Telling in a way I don’t think he realizes.
Sleep hasn’t been kind to him either.
“Hey,” he says.
His voice is careful. Not cold, not distant—just careful. Like he’s afraid the wrong word might send me running.
It won’t.
“Hey,” I say back, softer than I mean to.
His gaze flicks over my face, like he’s checking for damage. My sleeves pulled over my hands. The way my knee is bouncing just enough to give me away.
He swallows.
“You said you wanted to talk?”
I shift toward one side of the bench and pat the empty space beside me. “Do you want to sit?”
For a second, I think he might say no. Then he nods once and lowers himself beside me.
Not too close. Not far either.
