“You know what the shittiest part is? It only took her a day to move out.” He looks at me for a reaction and is met with my bewildered expression.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “She spent over a year visiting me in that apartment and eventually moved into it. And it only took her one day to pack all her stuff and disappear.” He lets his head fall back onto the cushion, his eyes slowly closing, and my head tilts as I study him.
It may be a dark thing to think, but he looks absolutely beautiful in all his pain. My fingers inch to run their way through his dark hair, my lips nearly quivering with the need to touch his.
“Jake…” I start, but I don’t really know what to say.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, and my heart sinks deeper, heavy with hurt for him. For the loss he endured unexpectedly. For the way it fractured who he thought he was. From the way it redefinedeverythingfor him.
I know that pain far too well. I know the ugliness that pain can lead to. Maybe that’s what drew me to him in the first place—to keep him off the road of destruction that can closely follow behind that darkness. To put light I once saw back into his eyes, where it belongs.
As if a sullen girl like you could ever give light.
My heart shudders at the voice in my head. I know that it’s true, but I quiet it away as I pick at the stitching of the couch cushion, filtering my thoughts for an appropriate response for Jake.
A small part of me wants to share a piece of myself with him the way he’s shared with me, if only to show him he’s not alone in that hurt. But a bigger part is worried what he’ll think of me, of my life. Would he look at me the same, bright hazel eyes piercing into mine like I’m someone worthy of their shine? Or would he just feel sorry for me? Consider me a pity case, or worse—poor company.
Maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all. I don’t want him to feel like I’m overshadowing his experience—weighing his hurt against mine. I’ve learned in the past that sometimes it’s better to remain silent in these moments. Avoid what can come off as a pissing contest when all you’re trying to do is tell themI get you, I know how it feels, and I’m with you.
Not to mention, most people don’t really want to see you. They’d rather keep a filter over you and see you through the lens they prefer. Maybe it’s more comfortable for them that way.
“Tell me yours.” His deep voice catches me midthought, and I stumble to understand his words. His head is still resting tiredly on the couch, his face angled toward me, but his hazel brown eyes seem lifted, lighter than they were just a minute ago. Like what he said alleviated some of what he was carrying. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“I’m just…listening. I’m not thinking about anything.”
“Yes, you are. Your eyes have that look in them.”
I swallow. His finger dusts something off my cheek innocently, and I pretend I’m not burning alive. “You said you experienced loss before, so you knew what it looked like. AndI can tell you’re thinking about something, so tell me about it. What’s your loss?”
“Oh.” I’m momentarily stunned that he’s asking for exactly what I stopped myself from offering. I’m also shocked he remembered those words. They felt so insignificant when I said them, but now I’m wishing I didn’t say anything at all, which worries me about sayingmorethings.
My fingers fidget with the fraying seam, picking at it until the fabric splits a little. I don’t really want to tell him the things that have sullied me. I’m too scared of what may come after. I don’t want to let him into a world I’d rather not come from. And what if my story doesn’t help? What if it just makes his pain feel smaller, like I’m comparing heartbreaks instead of trying to understand his?
What if he learns the terrible thing you did?
“Um.” My breath catches, making the word come out shaky and small. “It’s different,” I say, but my words are halfhearted, a weak attempt to brush it off before I crumble. “It’s like…family stuff. Just—” I stop, searching for words that don’t feel like knives. “It’s not the same kind of loss, but it still…takes pieces of you. Leaves behind fragments.”
I glance up then, meeting his eyes. They’re patient, curious, softer than they were. And suddenly, I hate how much that gentleness makes me want to tell him everything—how it started, how it broke, how the pain and guilt of it all still echoes. But I don’t. I swallow it back, letting the silence hide the horrors of my heart.
Jake returns his gaze forward. There’s nothing but the sound of the quickening rain pattering against the windows and the heaviness that has been unwound.
“I haven’t talked about any of that,” he says quietly.
“Like, not in a while?” I ask.
“Not ever.” His eyes look to mine, and the quiet vulnerability in them surrounded by the trust he just placed in my hands is almost too much. He gave a piece of himself he hasn’t yet exposed to anyone, and the high of it has my head spinning in a whirlwind.
His eyes return to the window but mine remain on him, awestruck by his perfection that was left so broken.
The truth of his pain weighs on my soul like an anchored ship in the middle of an angry ocean. I wonder if that’s how he felt all this time—alone and forced to remain in the midst of a storm he didn’t see coming, like I always have. The source of our pains may differ, but the crash of the loss is similar enough.
I let the truth of it cascade over me before releasing a breath, wishing there was more I could say, more I could do.
A moment later, an idea comes to mind.
“Come on, get up,” I tell him. “We need a pick-me-up,” I stand from the couch with forced excitement in an effort to change the mood. When he doesn’t move, I slap the side of his leg. “Comeon!”
“Ow,okay!” He chuckles, lifting his leg to shield himself from any other potential blows. “You’re oddly strong for someone so small, you know that?”
