Afterwards, there’d been her body, on the floor, held by him. His shirt in her weak grip, tremors, the returning rush of her breathing. The hesitant flex of her fingers, trying to move her own body again, in small and subtle ways—this is my arm, these are my hands.The safety of his body, in turn, around hers, a kiss at the hollow of the base of her neck.
Hands, familiar skin. Helping her up, letting her find her own two feet, offering her steadiness to lean against. Water, a drink down her raw throat. Her eyes closing, opening: dark, then light resolving.
Like she’s outside of her body; outside the boundaries of herself. Like the things she thought she was, the things she thought she’d never rise above, are with her still, but she can set their weight down for a moment—and unease, too, nameless but definite—she can’t settle here, this relief won’t last—
But for now, she feels safe in his arms.
“Tired,” she murmurs. She lets her fingers trace through the water.
The resolve to tell him, it’s not something she owes. It’s something she wants to give.
Lili takes a breath, and trusts.
“I—um... They died today,” she whispers. “My parents died today.”
He is quiet. Not judgmental, not shocked, not reacting. Instead, his arms are steady around her, listening.
“I forgot,” she whispers. Water laps against the side of the bath. “I was just running errands. I was happy, it felt like a good day, then my foster mom texted me. We’d talked recently, she’d found some photos, and—and—”
Tears do come, then. Lili tries to brush them away, her warm hand from the bath soothing the prickling heat at her eyes.
Behind her, Aleksandr kisses her hair. He doesn’t speak.
“I forgot,” she repeats. Like a slap, that confession of insufficiency, because how could she forget? Dark heaviness—worthlessness, undeserving—begins to crawl back in. “I forgot the date that my own parentsdied—”
Her sobs rise again. Her shoulders hitch, soundless gasps she can’t force back.
Under the water, Aleksandr’s palm against her stomach draws her closer into him; a little safer.
He doesn’t shush her, doesn’t quiet her. He just holds her. The feeling of his chest against her back, his arms around her, feels like safety carved out in the night; a place she can take the parts of herself—the ugly, disgusting, horrible parts of herself—and look at them, and point:There, I think that’s me. I think I’ll never be free of that. I think that is who I am, at the root of everything, and I both hate it and cannot live without it.
“No one knows,” she whispers. “About today. I’ve never told any of my friends, not even Jamie, the actual date. But I—I...I miss them. I missthem so much—and it—sometimes it feels like I’ll never get out from that—and I—I just—I feel soalone, like there’s this space between me and everyone and everything, and I’ll just—this is it, I’ll die here, this is the rest of my life. Just this pain, finding it everywhere, waiting for me, no matter where I go, what I do—”
Lili lets her words fail her, then—as the sobs catch again, shaking with the need to share this, torn by the inability to believe anyone could hear it and stay.
But he holds her, not moving away.
Time passes. Held by him, the hurt drains: suffering becoming pain, pain becoming sadness, sadness becoming grief.
She looks at him, then, turning slightly in his arms.
Aleksandr meets her gaze, steady.
Oh, the things that bloom in her chest, amid the shambles of herself, the parts she can’t hold together, the ruin she’s ashamed to show anyone, seeing the way he looks at her, like he’d hold it all for her.
Having this—having so much of this—comes in direct proportion to inevitable pain.
Having joy like this means it can hurt her.
Instead, Lili reaches for his face and kisses him. His lips are warm and soft against hers, and he lets her shape the kiss. Her cheeks are wet with her tears, his breath is a comfort, and his body is a place she wants to stay.
Even if she doesn’t believe it will last.
Even if this is just another hurt she’ll hide at the heart of her—even if this is the next car crash, the story she’ll be telling for the rest of her life.
She pushes aside the cost of things and closes her eyes.
The rush of sand, the tick of a clock.
