33. Rowan
It takes a while for the shaking to stop.
Not because Caelum is doing anything wrong...he isn't. He's holding me like I might fall apart, like I'm something worth catching instead of something people usually step over.
That's the problem.
That's what makes it worse.
My breathing eventually slows, but it doesn't feel like mine again immediately.
It feels borrowed.
Like I've been returned to myself in pieces.
I don't realise how tightly I've been holding onto him until my fingers start to loosen.
Until my grip stops being desperate and becomes... present.
Caelum doesn't move away.
He just stays there, steady in a way I don't understand.
His hand is still on my back, slow and careful, like he's afraid I'll break if he stops.
Maybe I already have.
Just not in a way that shows on the outside.
"...What's wrong?" he asks quietly.
Not sharp.
Not demanding.
Just... uncertain.
Like he's stepping into something he's never been taught how to approach.
I swallow.
My throat feels tight again, but not like before.
This time it's heavier.
More tired than panicked.
I should deflect.
That's what I usually do.
That's what I've always done.
Make a joke. Shift the focus. Leave before anything gets real.
But I don't move.
Because I'm already here.
Already broken open in front of him.
There's no pretending left that would make this less obvious.
"My mother," I say finally.
My voice comes out rougher than I expect.
Caelum doesn't interrupt.
He just listens.
"She was sick for a long time," I continue.
Long pause.
Too long.
Like I'm trying to decide how much truth I can actually survive saying out loud.
"Not the kind of sick people fix," I add quietly.
"That slow kind. The kind where you keep thinking there'll be a better week and there isn't."
My fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt again without thinking.
Not tight this time.
Just... anchored.
"I was still a kid when it started getting bad," I say.
My jaw tightens slightly.
"I didn't understand it at first. I just thought she was tired all the time."
Caelum's hand moves slightly on my back.
Still there.
Still listening.
"I learned how to read medicine schedules before I learned most school things," I say with a faint, humourless exhale.
"That was normal for me for a while."
Silence.
"And my sister..." I pause.
My chest tightens again, but not enough to break.
Just enough to feel.
"She was younger. Didn't understand why I was always gone or why I was always... tired."
I swallow.
My voice drops slightly.
"I used to lie to her a lot."
Caelum shifts a little closer, like he's making sure I'm still here.
Still grounded.
"I'd tell her it was temporary," I continue.
"That everything was temporary. That Mom was just resting and I was just... helping."
A small breath leaves me.
Not a laugh.
Not quite.
Just something empty.
"But it never really stopped," I say.
"It just changed shape."
Silence again.
But it's not empty.
It's heavy in a different way now.
Less chaotic.
More contained.
"I started working earlier than I should have," I admit quietly.
"Anything I could do. Anything that paid fast."
My fingers flex slightly.
"I didn't care what it was."
I hesitate.
Then add, quieter:
"Still don't, sometimes."
Caelum doesn't judge that.
He doesn't react like I expect him to.
He just listens.
Like I'm not something he needs to fix.
Just something he's allowed to hear.
"That's how I ended up where I did," I say finally.
A pause.
"Stripping. Racing. Anything that didn't ask too many questions and paid enough to keep things from collapsing."
My chest tightens again, but not painfully.
Just truthfully.
"I told myself it was temporary too," I mutter.
A small, bitter exhale.
"Everyone lies to themselves with that word."
Silence.
I feel Caelum shift slightly, and then I realise I've stopped speaking.
Like I've said enough to run out of momentum.
He waits.
Doesn't push.
Doesn't rush.
Just... waits.
It makes me continue.
Not because I want to.
Because I can.
"My sister's in college now," I say.
My voice softens slightly without permission.
"She doesn't need me the same way anymore. She thinks I've got everything handled."
A pause.
My jaw tightens again.
"She doesn't know I don't."
I exhale slowly.
Then add, quieter:
"I don't really know when I stopped being the person taking care of things and started being the thing that's just... holding things together until they fall apart again."
Silence settles after that.
Not uncomfortable.
Just real.
Caelum shifts slightly.
Then carefully, like he's unsure if it's allowed, he pulls me closer again.
Not tighter.
Just enough.
And for some reason, I don't resist it.
We end up lying down eventually
.
Not immediately.
Just... gradually.
Like neither of us decides it's time, it just becomes the next natural step.
The bed feels too soft for everything that was just said.
Too normal.
Too quiet.
Caelum ends up half leaning against me again.
Like earlier.
But slower this time.
More settled.
The movie is still playing in the background, but neither of us is really watching it anymore.
It's just light and sound now.
Nothing important.
His breathing starts to even out after a while.
Slower.
Deeper.
I realise he's falling asleep before he fully does.
His grip on my shirt loosens slightly.
His body weight shifts into mine more fully.
And I don't move.
I just stay there.
Listening to him breathe.
Feeling the absence of everything I was holding onto before.
Somewhere between thoughts and silence, it slips out.
Quiet.
Unplanned.
Unfiltered.
"I love you."
I don't even fully register saying it at first.
It just leaves.
Like it had been there too long and finally found a way out.
I freeze immediately after.
Because the moment it lands, everything in me catches up.
What I said.
To who I said it to.
What it means.
I wait.
For something.
Anything.
A response.
A shift.
A reaction.
Nothing comes.
Caelum is asleep.
Completely.
Breathing steady against me like he didn't hear a single word.
My chest tightens slightly.
Not pain.
Not panic.
Just... disappointment.
Quiet.
Immediate.
Unavoidable.
Of course.
Of course he didn't hear it.
Or maybe he did and just didn't respond.
That thought sits heavier than I expect it to.
I stare at the ceiling for a long moment.
Listening to his breathing.
Trying not to think too hard about what I just said out loud.
Trying not to make it mean more than it already does.
Eventually, I shift slightly.
Careful not to wake him.
My arm stays around him anyway.
Like letting go would confirm something I'm not ready to define.
"I shouldn't have said that," I mutter under my breath.
But I don't move away.
Because even without a response...
this still feels like the closest thing to calm I've had in a long time.
And I'm not ready to lose it yet.