Lydia #3
His voice softens, lowering the intensity in his tone, “You don’t mess things up. You do what any other person would do; you just try to survive. And Lydia…you’ve done more than just survive…you’re learning to live again, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”
He lets out this shaky breath, and I can hear the emotions he’s choking back, “The thing is…I want to be here to walk with you through the rest of that journey. I want to be here to remind you every day that you’re not ‘damaged,’ you’re perfect in your imperfections.
I refuse to let you believe you need to be quiet about your pain.
You’re the only one who can tell your story, and I want to hear every part of it.
But more than that, I want you to believe you deserve to be loved the right way after everything you’ve been through. To be safe. To be whole. To be happy.”
When he steps closer this time, he grabs both sides of my face, gently guiding me to look up at him.
This moment feels so intimate, like it’s just for us, like the world outside of this moment doesn’t even exist. The problems don’t exist. The self-destruction and self-doubt don’t exist. The fear of letting someone in doesn’t exist. It’s just us, all walls are down.
“So no, Lydia. I don’t see you as broken.
I don’t see you as damaged. I don’t see some stupid diagnosis on some stupid piece of paper.
I don’t see a villain…I see you. I see your strength.
I see your beauty. I see someone I’m so in love with that I think I might actually be clinically insane.
Lydia, I don’t want the picture-perfect story.
I want the broken picture that tells a story… I want that story to be our story.”
My brain turns to white noise. “Did you just say you…?”
“Love you?” He nods his head. “Yeah, I love you, Lydia,” he says again. “I know exactly what I’m signing up for. And I’m choosing it, choosing you.”
The field is too quiet. The world tilts. Some mean little voice in me tries to tell me he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but the bigger part—the tired part, the honest part—just stares at him and feels something completely untie inside for the first time ever.
“I…” My mouth can’t find it at first. My hands do, though; they find his shirt, bunching it and holding on.
“I think I’ve loved you for a while now,” I whisper.
“I just kept calling it other names so I wouldn’t have to risk letting myself get hurt.
” I take the step that scares me most. “I love you too, Bash.”
He closes his eyes like his prayer got answered. When he opens them, there’s that ridiculous softness there that always makes me feel like I shouldn’t feel bad about wanting everything he’s offering me.
“Can I kiss you now?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I’m done pretending I don’t want the good thing. Pretending I don’t want to be selfish with him.
He kisses me, and it feels like he’s breathing air into my lungs. He wraps a hand around the back of my head, into my hair, and I fall completely into him, into the safest arms I know.
When we pull apart, I laugh because I feel embarrassed for always trying to push away the good in my life.
He presses his forehead to mine.
“We can go slow,” he says. “We will go slow. We’ll mess up the pacing, and then we’ll try again. We keep trying, and we keep choosing to stay. We choose a love that sometimes hurts, but never hurts on purpose. We choose to be safe for each other.”
I nod. “I wanna choose that.”
We lie back on the turf, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the night sky. The stars are faint but there if you squint a little. I tuck my hand into his and feel his thumb trace along the top. My heart is beating loud enough that I think he can hear it.
“You know that verse you sent?” I say. “About the darkness not being dark?”
“Mhm,” he answers, turning to watch me.
“I don’t know what I believe yet,” I admit. “But…this—” I squeeze his hand. “This feels like proof the dark isn’t all there is.”
He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles. We don’t say anything else for a while. We don’t have to.
Eventually, he sits up and pulls me with him. I end up between his knees with his arms around me, and my back against his chest. The whole stadium is ours for this small moment. He rests his chin on top of my head, and I just let my body follow his lead in slowly down our breaths.
“Want me to walk you home?” he asks, voice low against my hair.
“In a minute,” I say. “I want to keep this for a little longer. Five more minutes?”
“Ten,” he bargains.
“Deal,” I say.
When we finally stand, he picks up our bags, and I pick up the ridiculous hope I keep dropping. We walk across the field, fingers laced, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m dragging him into my mess. I feel like we’re stepping into something beautiful and messy…together.
At the end of the field before the track, I pause and look back at where we sat. It looks like nothing from here. But I know what we chose in that spot. I know what we said.
He squeezes my hand. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”