Because I remember what happens when you show the wrong part of yourself.
I remember hands that hurt instead of held. I remember being eight years old and praying for someone to come for me when I watched her bleed out on the carpet.
I’ve never felt safe.
Not until Miguel.
And now I can’t even give him that truth without risking losing everything else.
The guilt twists deep. Miguel deserves someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who can hold his hand while walking down the street and not worry who’s watching.
But I can’t even say his name out loud without my voice shaking.
My timer for the laundry beeps on my phone. I ignore it. My hands tremble as I unlock my phone.
I open our thread. His name glows soft against the screen.
Caleb
Hey. You home yet?
It’s only a minute before the dots appear. Then his reply comes through—a voice message, that lazy, deep drawl even through the phone.
“Yeah, baby. Just pulled into my parking spot. You okay?”
I swallow hard.
Caleb
Just tired. Long night.
Another pause, another burst of dots. A text this time.
Miguel
You want me to call?
I shake my head even though he can’t see.
Caleb
No, just needed to hear from you.
The next message comes slower, like he’s thinking through each word.
Miguel
I’m here, baby. I’m guessing Dad got ahold of you, like he always does. Whatever he said, whatever’s eating at you, it’s just noise. You’re okay. You’re safe. You hear me?
A lump rises in my throat. My fingers hover before I type back.
Caleb
Yeah. I hear you.
Then one last message buzzes through, his words steady, warm, and unshakable.
Miguel
