But she didn’t.
She broke herself with it.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers as if she heard my thoughts. “I am so, so sorry, I don’t know how to?—“
“You said sorry,” I say. “You didn’t mean to.”
“I meant to, I—I?—“
“Shhhh,” I say. I mean, I know many of the things crossed a line, but I also know that she wasn’t herself. Her brain chemistry did things to her because she couldn’t handle the grief. And while I am still unsure about my own reaction to whatever that was that happened between us, I know one thing:
I love her. And others may call me crazy, but when I love, I do so with all I have, meaning all the understanding of what emotional distress does to a person and the belief in her good heart. She always asked for consent and was always thoughtful. The person I saw wasn’t her.
“You didn’t mean to. You tried to make me hate you. You grasped the last straw because I confronted you with a version of yourself you couldn’t hold because your brain wouldn’t let you. That version wasn’t you. You. Didn’t. Mean. To.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she repeats.
“Yes,” I say. “And to be entirely honest, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world,” I add.
“I hit you, I hurt you, I–“
“And I would want you to do it again,” I say and add, “With some boundaries and talking beforehand.”
“Are you for real?” she asks incredulously.
“Yes,” I say. “Call me crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” she says. “Don’t say that about yourself.”
I smile.
There she is again.
The woman I fell for.
We lie there for endless moments.
Her breathing slows down until her eyes close and her body relaxes.
I crawl out of the bed under her, stretch myself because my back hurts from the position, and then place her in the bed and cover her with a blanket.
She looks so peaceful, the woman I once met.
The one who saved me from the stalker. Who talked me through my over-stimulation. Who taught me how to stand up in front of my mother. Who held my hand while flying. Who knew how to calm my every wave.
A smile hushes over my face as I crawl back into the bed with her and cuddle around her from behind. I dig my nose into her hair.
Lavender.
“I love you,” I say silently into the back of her head, “And I am not going anywhere.”
And with that, I close my eyes, too.
When I wake, Amelie brushes with her hand over my face. I open my eyes. She looks at me.
“Hi,” she says hesitantly.
“Hi back,” I say, smiling drowsily.
