Chapter 17
Tilly
I’m going to tell him.
No, I am not.
I am.
No.
It feels like plucking petals off a rose — he loves me, he loves me not — except it isn’t about love at all.
It is about whether I’ll destroy myself by speaking.
He sits across from me at the kitchen counter, hoodie loose around his shoulders, fingers tapping against his cereal bowl like he has all the time in the world.
I almost wish he didn’t.
His eyes don’t leave mine, but they aren’t sharp or demanding.
Just steady. Like a lighthouse.
You can tell me anything.
Does he mean everything, though? Or just the normal things? The easy stuff.
The parts of me that fit into a story that isn’t ugly.
“I—” My voice catches. My throat feels like it’s closing.
Little does he know he is looking at the mask I’ve perfected.
He looks at it every day.
At this point, I don’t think I ever show myself.
How can he ever decipher something I’ve hidden this well?
“I don’t know how to say this,” I admit.
“That’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to get it perfect.”
I stare down at my hands, picking at my sleeve, nails pressing into my skin.
“I guess I’ll just talk. But you need to promise me you won’t, by any substance, change the way you look at me.”
That’s impossible, because I will– am different.
“I promise,” he says instantly.
No hesitation.
And for some reason, that makes it harder.
I take a shaky and uneven breath.
“Basically,” my voice cracks before the word even fully leaves.
This is so stupid.
I know there are bigger problems in the world, but this particular problem swallowed my world, and I feel stuck in a bubble, floating me away from everyone I love.
“I, um, have nightmares.” I look at him and regret it instantly.
Great, now he thinks I’m making a nightmare sound horrifying.
I’m such a baby.
He’s looking at me gently, and I feel my heart break when I realize I can’t find the comfort in them.
“Every night,” I add.
I stare down at the floor, unable to look at him.
The words come out like broken glass scraping my throat.
“I might have—hypothetically speaking—not been me around you guys. Like… ever. Hypothetically, I’ve only been showing the good part, and I realize that’s not healthy.
” I take a shaky breath and dig my nail into my hand.
“I’m really… tortured. I’m messed up. And I’m definitely not normal. ”
Something inside me cracks.
The words start coming faster, like water spilling from a glass I can’t stop tipping over.
“I’m really ugly on the inside, Luca,” I whisper, but my whisper is jagged and loud in the quiet room.
“I’m fine during the day. I just leave all the bad stuff for the night.
I rarely sleep. I cut myself emotionally.
I abuse myself emotionally. I self-harm emotionally.
I ruin everything good by cutting it up into a million pieces and pruning it all.
Nothing to my body. Always on the inside. ”
My throat burns.
My lungs ache.
I feel the tears fall down my face.
I hate crying in front of people .
“It might sound stupid, and that’s because it is.
But for some reason, the moment the darkness coats all of Australia, these horrible thoughts come, and there is no switch to turn them off.
All these thoughts make me feel dirty. They torture me, and the worst thing is that these are my own thoughts.
How messed up is it that I’m creating a disgusting image of myself and replaying it every. Single. Night?”
I dig my fingernails into my palm to keep from shaking.
I’m still not looking at Luca, because I’m terrified of what I will see.
I can feel his gaze burning on my face, though.
“I never say anything because it’s my baggage. I’m scared that I’ll scare people off with this-” I pause, sucking in a breath that catches in my chest, “I’m just not good enough for real love. Any kind of love. Not from friends. Not from family. Not from anyone.”
My vision blurs, and my cheeks are wet.
Crap, crap, crap!
I can’t stop the tears, and it makes them fall faster.
My nose stings, and my whole body feels like it has been turned inside out.
Luca’s hand gently brushes the tears from my face.
His thumb is warm against my skin, a small anchor in a storm that has been raging in me for years.
I break.
All the walls I’ve built come down, and it is just me, curled in on myself.
He pulls me into a hug and doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t rush me.
He doesn’t ask me to stop.
He doesn’t force me to look at him.
He just holds me.
His hand moves slowly on my back, up and down, in a comforting pattern.
I press my face into his chest and notice his breathing is steady.
Slow, like a lullaby for my panic.
“Tilly,” he pulls away gently. “Look at me.”
I shake my head. The word no presses against my teeth, but nothing comes out.
I feel dense.
“Please?”
It isn’t even a command, more like a plea.
I force myself to lift my eyes to him.
I probably look horrible, and it makes me want to throw up.
His face blurs through the wetness, and I almost look away again.
Crying in front of someone feels like peeling my skin off and laying it on the table for them to inspect. It makes me want to sink into the floorboards, to disappear where no one can find me.
But his eyes don’t flinch.
“None of what you said about yourself is true,” he says finally.
His voice is so low it’s almost a whisper.
“You’re the best person I have ever met. Even if you feel like I don’t know you, it’s not true. I know more than you think. It physically hurts knowing you’ve been carrying this alone. You don’t deserve that pain. But nothing, nothing , could ever change how much you matter to me, Tilly.”
I start crying again.
I wish movie crying was real, but I’m proof it isn’t.
I don’t feel pretty right now.
I feel sick.
Sick in the head.
Sick in the heart.
Sick to the stomach.
I make a small, broken sound and press my face into his chest like a kid hiding from the dark.
“No, Luca, you don’t understand. This is not a silly little overthinking.
These thoughts are destructive. They impact my physical health.
They impact every part of my life, and I’m tired.
I’m sick in the head. Mentally ill. You look at me and see a blond girl who is crying for the first time in years.
The reality is you’re looking at a pale silhouette of someone who has deep, dark bruises on her heart. I’m not normal, Luca.”
My voice is shaky, and I’m pretty sure I’m shaking just as badly.
“T?” he says gently.
His hand brushes the back of my head, and he lets me sit there.
“Yeah?”
“You’re enough.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Like gravity.
Not an opinion. Not something I have to earn.
It makes my heart ache in the best way — like it’s splitting and stitching back together at the same time.
I keep crying.
And crying.
And crying.
Time slips sideways.
Luca just sits there holding me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
His hoodie smells faintly of laundry detergent and sea air, like the beach clung to him.
His heartbeat is steady against my ear, like a metronome keeping me from unraveling completely.
“You’re not any of what you just told me, and I’m one hundred percent positive you are none of what you tell yourself every night.”
“How can you be sure? You don’t know me. No one does, because the real me is the one who stays up while everyone sleeps. No one has ever seen me the way I am truly built. How can you tell I’m none of that when you don’t even know me?”
My voice sounds wrong, and I hate myself for it.
He tilts my head, forcing me to look at him, and I let myself.
I have nothing to lose.
“Because I’m looking at you right now, in the middle of the night, and all I can see is a beautiful blond girl that has the most gorgeous eyes and the prettiest face.
All I can see is a girl that has beautiful, pink cheeks, and the brightest red heart out there.
A million thoughts are running in your eyes, each one proving just how smart you are. ”
I break down again, and all I can think about is every single description I label myself, and how utterly different it is from the ones he is labeling me.
When I finally start to calm down, hiccuping breaths and all, I manage to whisper, “Luca?”
“Yeah.”
“I hate crying in front of people,” I confess, my voice so small it almost isn’t there.
“It makes me feel weak. Like I’m… disgusting. Like I’m making a mess no one should have to see.”
His arms tighten around me a little.
“You’re not weak.”
“You don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head against his chest. My words come out jagged. “You don’t see what’s in my head. The things I think about. How gross it feels to even be in my own skin sometimes. I don’t deserve—”
“Stop.” He says it softly, but firmly.
It hurts.
Not like a hit. More like someone gently taking a knife out of your hand before you hurt yourself.
Embarrassment flows through every fiber of my being, and looking at him makes me dizzy.
I blink up at him through my tears anyway. My cheeks burn, raw from wiping at them.
“You’re not disgusting,” he says. “You’re not gross. You’re not weird. You’re not ugly, on the inside or outside; you’re enough for all kinds of love. And you know what?”
He lifts my chin to look at him.
“Your baggage is not too much for me, Tilly. It doesn’t scare me . You’ve been carrying this by yourself so long that you think you’re the problem.” His eyes don’t leave mine for a second, and I can see the pain and honesty in them
“You. Are. Not. The. Problem.”
I let out a shaky laugh, “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know,” he says.
His voice cracks just a little, like something inside him is breaking too, but he keeps going.
“Feelings aren’t facts. You’re not your worst nights.
You’re not your thoughts at 3 a.m. You’re the person sitting here right now.
And that person deserves to be seen. All of her. Even the parts she hates.”
I press my forehead against his shoulder, eyes burning. “Why are you so nice to me?” It comes out more like why do you bother?
“Because someone should have been, a long time ago,” he says simply.
I didn’t realize how much I needed this.
Him letting me be a mess.
Letting me breathe.
Letting me exist without having to pretend.
The kitchen feels warm despite the night air leaking in from the window.
Outside, the sea whispers against the shore, steady and endless, like it doesn’t care who broke or healed tonight.
One thing about the sea, you can always depend on it.
No matter what happens, you will always hear the waves crash in the evening.
Even though my tears keep coming, something inside me loosens.
Enough to breathe without it hurting.
I’m not fixed. I’m not healed. But I’m not alone anymore.
My mind doesn’t get the only say, and that takes off a weight that suffocated me like I was drowning.
I sniff hard, trying to wipe my face with the back of my sleeve. It only smears the wetness around. “Luca?” I feel my stomach churn.
“Yeah.” His hand is still on my hand, and I don’t know why he insists on holding my hand so much.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper.
My throat burns. “Not Yana. Not Zara. Not Matt. Not anyone. Please.”
His brow furrows, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Okay.”
“I mean it.” I swallow, the lump in my throat sharp enough to cut.
“Not even in a passing joke. Not even as a hint. It’s not— it’s not something I want them to know. I don’t want their pity. Or their faces when they find out I’m-” I stop before I start sobbing again.
He tilts my head until our eyes meet. “Tills.”
“What?” It comes out defensive.
“I won’t tell anyone.” His voice is quiet but steady, like a hand gripping yours in the dark. “Not Yana, not Zara, not Matt, not anyone. This stays with me. I promise.”
My chest clenches at that word.
Promise.
People always say it too easily. But I trust him.
The promise is like a weight settling instead of floating away.
“You mean it?” I ask, just to make sure.
“I mean it,” he says. “Not because it’s a secret. Because it’s yours.”
I nod, unable to speak.
He squeezes my hand gently, then lets it go. “You don’t have to be perfect around me. You don’t have to be anything but Tilly.”
I feel the tiniest flicker of relief, like someone had finally stopped pressing on a bruise.
We sit there in the kitchen, and I breathe.
Finally.