Zara #3
“I know,” he says gently. “And I’m not saying it is. I’m saying that’s how it feels when you shut me out. When you decide for me that I can’t handle seeing you sad.”
I stare at the wall, the weight of his words settling over me, heavy but… oddly relieving, too. At least now it’s all out. No more pretending.
The tears slow, and my breathing evens out a little.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, voice small. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about it like that. I just didn’t want to be ‘too much’ on top of everything else you already deal with. The anger stuff. Life. I thought if I kept it together for you, it would be… easier.”
His arms tighten again, pulling me closer into his chest as if he’s trying to merge us.
“You will never be too much to me,” he says quietly, and there’s no humor in it now. Just truth. “A true gremlin? Absolutely. Loud in the best way? Constantly. But too much? No. The only ‘too much’ in this equation is how much I love you, and you’re stuck with that.”
A watery laugh escapes me.
“That’s so cheesy,” I mumble, swiping at my cheeks again.
“Good. Maybe if I lay it on thick enough, some of it will stick and drown out your mom’s bullshit.” He shifts, adjusting his hold so I’m more firmly against him, his palms splayed over my stomach. “So. Here’s the deal.”
“Uh oh,” I murmur.
“From now on,” he goes on, ignoring me, “if you’re having a bad day, I want to know. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s ‘I don’t feel like getting out of bed.’ Even if you don’t know why you feel like garbage. You don’t have to have a reason to tell me. The feeling is enough.”
My chest aches.
“And I’m not saying you have to tell me everything the second it happens,” he adds quickly.
“I know sometimes you need to process alone. Or you don’t have words yet.
That’s fine. I just… I need you to not shut me out completely.
Let me sit on the floor with you. Let me be there while you cry, even if I can’t fix it. Especially then.”
“You really want to see that?” I ask skeptically. “The full sad gremlin experience? It’s not cute. There’s snot. There’s ugly crying. There’s Malcolm in the Middle reruns and cereal out of the box and not showering for a day.”
“I sat through three seasons of that weird k-drama you love where everyone just pines and stares at each other in the rain,” he points out. “I’m pretty sure I can handle cereal and Malcolm in the Middle.”
“The k-drama was romantic,” I protest weakly.
“It was people refusing to communicate,” he counters. “I’m trying to not be that.”
That shuts me up.
He presses his forehead lightly to the back of my head, taking a breath in as I let mine out.
“What can I do right now?” he asks after a moment, voice gone soft again.
“To help. I mean specifically. Do you want me to make you food? Sit here and let you talk? Put on music and let you crash? Take you to my place and kidnap you for the weekend? Tell me what would make this even a tiny bit easier.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, the honesty scraping my throat raw. “That’s the worst part. Half the time I don’t know what I need. I just… want it to stop. I want to feel normal for longer than a few weeks at a time.”
His hands rub slow circles on my stomach as he thinks.
“Okay,” he says eventually. “Then we experiment. Together. We figure out what helps and what doesn’t. Maybe it’s walking. Maybe it’s music. Maybe it’s you yelling at a pillow while I hold it. Maybe it’s therapy. Maybe it’s adjusting meds. Whatever it is, we’ll try stuff until some of it sticks.”
“And if none of it works?” I ask, staring at our hands, his fingers laced loosely over mine.
“Then we keep trying,” he says simply. “And on the days it really sucks, we go back to the basics. Breathing. Existing. One hour at a time. You’re not doing that part by yourself anymore, Zae. That’s… non-negotiable.”
My eyes sting again, but it’s different now. Less sharp. More… full.
“You’re going to get tired of this,” I say quietly. “Of me. Of my cycles. Of the ups and downs. Of the nights I cancel plans and the days I can’t stop crying for no reason.”
“I’m already tired,” he says dryly. “Of you pretending you don’t get to be human. The other stuff? That’s just… life. It’s not going to scare me off.”
“You say that now,” I mutter.
“I’ll say it in fifty years too,” he counters. “When we’re old and yelling at teenagers to get off our skatepark.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me at the image—me and Cass as grumpy grandparents, guarding the park like dragons.
“That’s the laugh,” he murmurs, satisfaction warm in his tone as I feel his chest loosen behind me. “The real one. Missed that one.”
We sit there for a while, no rush, the silence between us finally comfortable again.
My breathing slows. My shoulders drop. The ache behind my eyes eases.
He doesn’t let go.
Eventually, I turn a little in his lap so I can see his face better. His hair’s messed up from running his hands through it. There’s a faint crease between his brows, but his eyes are softer now, less stormy.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve as I meet his gaze. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you didn’t get to worry about me.”
“I forgive you,” he says easily. “On one condition.”
“Of course there’s a condition.” I sigh, but my mouth curves. “What is it?”
He lifts a hand, hooks his pinky out between us.
“Pinky swear you won’t lie to me about being ‘fine’ when you’re actually crumbling.
You can say ‘I don’t want to talk about it yet.
’ You can say ‘it’s complicated.’ You can even say ‘I don’t know what the fuck is wrong, I just feel awful.
’ But don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ and a smile you only use on professors and baristas, okay? ”
I stare at his pinky. It’s the dumbest, most serious contract I’ve ever been offered. Slowly, I hook mine around his.
“Okay,” I whisper. “No more ‘I’m fine’ lies.”
He squeezes our linked fingers. “Good.” He leans forward and presses a quick kiss to my forehead, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
“For the record,” he adds, voice muffled against my skin, “I don’t think your depression means you don’t love me.
I think it means your brain is tired and mean and sometimes it’s going to need backup.
I signed up for that when I told you I loved you. I meant it.”
My throat closes up all over again, but this time there’s a warmth underneath the ache.
I shift fully now, swinging one leg over his so I’m straddling his lap, my hands braced on his shoulders. His eyes widen slightly at the movement, but he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me.
“Okay,” I say, nodding once, mostly for me. “Backup accepted.”
He smiles, small but real, hands settling on my hips.
“Good,” he says. “Now let’s order pizza and watch something where people are worse off than us.”
“Like what?” I ask, nose scrunching.
“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “A show where rich people make bad choices. Or a documentary about cults. Or we can just put on that one cartoon you like with the fire demon and the moving castle.”
“Howl’s Moving Castle is not ‘that one cartoon’ and you know it!” I protest, poking his chest. “It’s art. It’s healing.”
“Exactly,” he says, eyes softening. “You need healing. I need pizza. It’s a win-win.”
I huff out a laugh and let my forehead drop to his, closing my eyes as his hands rub slow circles on my hips.
The depression doesn’t vanish. The heaviness doesn’t magically lift. But it feels… lighter with him holding me through it. Less like I’m drowning alone and more like we’re wading through the muck together. And for tonight—for this minute—that’s enough.
I let myself breathe into that. Into him. Into the possibility that maybe, even when my brain tries to convince me I’m too much, there will always be at least one person who refuses to believe it.
“Okay,” I murmur again, more to myself than anything.
“Okay,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the tip of my nose. “I’ve got you, Sunshine. Even on the days you can’t see it.”
I believe him.