I lean forward, voice softening. “Tilly,doyou know you can tell me anything? Do you know that I won’t judge you, and I definitely won’t hate you? Do you know that?”
For a second, she doesn’t move.
Her spoon is suspended over the bowl, her eyes flicking down, then back to me.
She looks small, almost fragile, but there is steel under it, too.
“Luca…” she starts, but her voice cracks just enough to make my chest ache.
As much as I want to, I don’t push.
I just sit there watching her.
The kitchen feels like it’s holding its breath — the hum of the fridge, the tick of the clock, even the shadows on the wall.
Everything seems to stand still, waiting for whatever is about to be said.
The suspense is slowly drawing out, and all I want to doist knock every word out of her, tie it in a nice pink ribbon, and throwi out the window.
Because, for some reason, I have a dreadful feeling these words aren’t pretty.
I realize, sitting here in the soft glow of the stove light, hoodie pulled tight around me, that this is it.
This is the edge, and she’s about to jump off.
You are ugly.
You are dishonest.
You are a liar.
You are a disgrace.
You are pathetic.
You are disgusting.
You are ugly.
You are sick.
You are unworthy of love.
You are unworthy of joy.
You ruin everything you touch.
You always say the wrong thing.
You don’t deserve to be here.
You’re too much… and never enough at the same time.
You’re exhausting to love.
You make people regret choosing you.
You’re forgettable.
