Bash #2
“I’m proud of you,” I say, and she rolls her eyes like the words embarrass her.
I take off my hoodie and hand it over. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m always shaking,” she mutters, but she puts it on. It’s too big, and it looks just right on her. She tucks her hands into the sleeves and breathes into the fabric like it’s an inhaler.
“Can I sit?” I ask.
She nods.
She doesn’t lean in immediately, and I don’t ask her to, even though I want to. I want to touch her. I want to comfort her. I want to take her pain away.
We just sit with a couple of inches of space that feels like a mile between us. I can hear the thud of someone’s speaker through the wall. I can hear all the thoughts clouding her mind. I can hear my own heartbeat wanting to make its way out of my chest and go to her.
“Want to talk, or just enjoy the silence?” I ask. “Both options are available.”
She tilts her head back against the sofa and closes her eyes. “I wish I could be a different person,” she says to the ceiling.
“I get that,” I say.
Her laugh sounds like a hiccup. “You’re supposed to say something like ‘you are who you are, and you are enough,’” she says, mocking the voice of a stereotypical therapist.
“You are who you are, and you are enough,” I reply in a flat tone, then I smile. “Also, wanting to be a different person does not make you ungrateful for the progress. It makes you honest about the things that still hurt.”
She looks at me, eyes weary. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
“Because shame is doing that job loud enough,” I tell her. “And because I’m just not. Relapse isn’t the end of the world.”
“I want to sleep for a week straight and wake up with a new brain.”
“Sleep is allowed,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t have a week’s worth of couch, but I’ve got right now.”
She makes a little sound that’s half a scoff, half a cry, and then she moves into me.
It’s not graceful or planned, just her collapsing, and I’m ready for it.
One second, there’s space between us, the next, she’s folded into my chest like it’s where she’s deciding to safely land.
My arms go around her automatically, but carefully.
She is all sharp bones and body heat and a heavy tiredness.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into my shirt, and I feel the tears soaking through. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You do not owe me an apology,” I tell her as she buries her face into my shirt.
“I don’t deserve—” she begins, and I place a gentle hand on her back.
“You deserve help,” I tell her. “You deserve rest. You deserve people who will sit with you on this ugly couch and allow you to have a restart without having to earn it.”
She shakes in my arms in waves, the kind of crying you don’t choose, the kind that wrings you out from the inside, from within your bones, and feels soul-deep.
I keep my hand on her back, thumb tracing circles that I hope silently tell her I’m here and I care and I’m not going anywhere… that I don’t want to go anywhere.
I want to tell her that I love her, that I think I’m in love with her.
That she is the most beautiful to me when she lets all her walls down.
I want to whisper it into her hair and tell her things are gonna be okay…
I can’t promise that, though, and right now would probably be the worst timing to confess something I think I’ve already known for months, so I tuck it away for another day, another conversation.
I lose time, lying there with her. We somehow move fully onto the couch, side by side.
She places my arm around her like it’ll protect her.
And it will; I’ll make sure it always will.
She fits perfectly under my arms, and in my heart, and I want to take every terrible thing that has ever been thrown at her and burn it to the ground so she knows none of it can ever touch her or hurt her again.
I used to be scared of this exact feeling, of caring this much about someone else. But she makes me happy to do it, happy to hand her any weapon to hurt me with, because I know deep down, she would never use it purposely. She makes it worth the risk regardless.
At some point, Lani and Simone arrive. Lani kneels in front of us, eyes glossy but trying to keep her emotions back so she can comfort her friend.
“What can we get you?” she asks Lydia, voice low. “Water? Coffee? Crackers? A trash can? A blanket? My left kidney?”
“Gatorade would be a solid choice,” Simone whispers, already holding up a bottle. She touches Lydia’s leg and leaves her hand there, comforting her without any words. “We’re right here,” she says. “No lectures. Promise.”
“Hey,” I whisper to them, not moving more than I have to because Lydia is heaviest when she finally lets someone else carry the weight with her. “Thank you.”
They nod like, of course, like how else would this go, like the three of us will be the safety net today, and that’s that. Lani disappears and comes back with a small mountain of bland carbs. Simone shoves a tissue into my free hand for whenever Lydia might need it.
“I’m not good,” Lydia says, clutching to my arm, voice a little hoarse from being so quiet and crying a lot. “I’m trying to be, but…I’m not.”
“You’re here,” Simone says. “That’s good enough.”
“You told us,” Lani says, softer than I’ve ever heard her. “That’s the important part.”
“You asked for what you needed,” I say. “That’s major progress.”
She shakes her head like she can’t accept any of the encouragement. I don’t make her. I just keep breathing slow and steady against the top of her head and let my sleeve take the brunt of her tears.
At some point, she stops shaking. Her body loses the constant flinch. The weight of her gets heavier in the good way—sleep heavy, not hopeless heavy. She mumbles something I can’t catch, and then sighs like she’s finally giving in to the exhaustion.
“You good to stay with her?” Simone asks under her breath. “You need a break or anything?”
“I’m good as long as she needs me here,” I whisper back. My arm is already numb, but I don’t care. If staying still is what help looks like today, then I can do that.
Lani drapes a blanket over Lydia’s legs.
Simone tucks a strand of hair behind Lydia’s ear like she’s done it a thousand times.
I meet their eyes over the top of her head, and we make an unspoken pact that we will keep her safe, we will be boring, we will feed her, we will stay with her, and when she wakes back up, we will plan whatever the next steps are together.
We won’t let her do this alone and afraid.
Lydia settles, breathing evening out against my chest. She falls asleep like that—pressed into me, finally quiet and at peace.