March 8th
I can still feel the warmth of her lips on mine, the taste of her lingering like a drug I can’t get enough of. I’ve played that moment over and over in my mind, dissecting every detail—how her breath caught when I moved closer, the way her eyes searched mine, like she was waiting for me to make the first move.
I did.
And I’m terrified.
It wasn’t just desire coursing through me—it was something deeper, something that feels like it’s been buried inside me for years, waiting for her to unlock it. The longing, the need to make her mine, to keep her safe, to build a life with her—it all surged to the surface. It’s like I’ve been walking through life numb, and now, with her, I finally feel awake.
I want to make her mine forever. This isn’t just about the thrill of having her; it’s about more than that. It’s about creating something permanent, something real. I see a future with her, a family, something I never thought I’d have. A home that isn’t filled with silence and coldness, but with warmth, love, and the sound of children’s laughter. Our children. A family she and I create together.
I know I’m crossing a line. I’ve crossed so many already that it’s hard to see where the lines even are anymore. But I don’t care. She’s brought something to life inside me that I thought was long dead. Ever since Rocco died, just minutes after he was born, I’ve carried this emptiness. The pages and pages of things we would do together still sit on my desk, unused for decades. The path I thought my life would take, the reliability and predictability… I thought things would stay perfect forever.
My mother never recovered, and my stepfather… he made sure we all suffered for it. That kind of loss, that kind of pain—it changes you. It hardens you. But with Francesca, it feels like there’s a chance to fill that void, to heal in a way I never thought possible.
She doesn’t know about what else my stepfather did, about the nights I spent imagining what it would be like if Rocco had lived, if I’d had a brother to protect from the world and if my mother had never met him. Never had a reason to leave my father. I’ve never told anyone. It’s always been locked away, along with all the memories of those verbal lashings, the way my stepfather’s eyes would darken before he struck with words dripped in venom. But now, with her, I want to share everything. I want to let her in, show her all the broken pieces, and let her help me put them back together.
I know this might seem wrong to others—maybe even to her. But I’ve learned that morality isn’t always black and white. Sometimes, it’s about survival, about doing what you have to do to keep the things you love. I’ve had to live in the gray areas my whole life, and this is no different. What we have, what we could have—it’s worth any price.
She’s my salvation, my redemption. The only person who’s ever made me feel like I’m more than the sum of my darkness.