47

The sky outside his window is soft grey.

Muted. Still.

The kind of quiet where everything important feels louder.

Luca's beside me, legs tangled with mine under the blanket, his fingers resting gently between my own. There's a movie playing in the background-neither of us is really watching.

And my heart is doing that thing again.

That tight, fluttering, choking thing.

"Luca," I say, barely above a whisper.

He looks at me like he always does.

Like I'm something soft.

Like I've never been broken.

"Yeah?"

"Can I... tell you something real?"

His face changes. Not with fear, not with pressure.

Just... quiet readiness.

"Always."

I stare at the floor.

Then the ceiling.

Then my hands.

Then finally, his face.

"When I was eleven," I say, and my throat burns, "someone hurt me."

The word I mean is heavier than that.

But my body still won't let me say it.

So I let it blur.

"It was someone I knew. Trusted."

I swallow.

"I didn't understand what was happening, not really. I just knew it felt... wrong. That I felt wrong. It happened for years every week."

His hand doesn't leave mine.

He doesn't lean away.

He doesn't flinch.

He just waits.

"I didn't tell anyone for a long time. I thought it was my fault. That maybe I deserved it."

A tear slips out before I can catch it.

"It wasn't," Luca says. Quiet. Steady. Not even blinking.

I nod, shakily.

"Later, someone told me what it was. What it did to me. The... waking up frozen. The nightmares. The way my chest would lock when someone got too close."

"That's PTSD," I say. "I have it."

"I know."

Two simple words. But somehow, they make the ground feel solid again.

"It affects other stuff too. I barely talk about this part but... eating. Food."

I look away.

"It started when I was around twelve. I'd sit down to eat and my whole body would panic. I thought I was just picky. But it's ARFID. Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder. It's real. And it's hell."

"Some days I physically can't eat. It feels like something's crawling in my throat. And I just... sit there. Hating myself."

Luca's hand tightens slightly.

Not in fear.

In anchor.

"Sometimes I go days. Sometimes I do okay. Sometimes I just... cry. At the table. Like a child. Because it's just food, and I can't even do that right."

He still hasn't said anything.

And somehow, that's perfect.

Finally, I glance at him again.

"I'm scared all the time," I whisper. "That I'm too much. Too broken. That one day you'll leave just because I'm exhausting."

He moves slowly.

Pulls me into him like I'm something fragile but worth holding.

I don't even resist.

I just let go.

My face pressed to his chest. His arms wrapped around me like I won't shatter.

He says one thing.

Not loud.

Not forced.

Just warm.

"You don't have to be okay for me to stay."

And for the first time in years, I let someone hold me while I cried.

Not out of shame.

But because it's the first time I feel like maybe... I'm not carrying this alone anymore.

-----------------------------------------

She says, "Can I tell you something real?"

And I know - I know - that whatever's coming next is going to change everything.

I don't move.

Don't rush her.

I just give her the one thing she's never been given:

Time.

She doesn't look at me when she starts talking.

Her voice cracks halfway through.

And then she says it.

What happened to her.

What someone did to her when she was eleven.

I want to break something.

Rip the world apart and stitch it back without monsters in it.

But I don't move.

I stay still.

Because this moment - this gift - is not about me.

It's about her finally breathing.

And maybe for the first time, not being scared to speak.

She keeps going.

Her voice trembles, but she doesn't stop.

She talks about the nightmares, the guilt, the blame she's carried like a second skin.

She talks about PTSD.

About ARFID and the war inside her just to eat.

About how sometimes she wants to disappear from her own body.

And through all of it-

I just... listen.

Not because I have the answers.

But because she needs to be heard more than she needs to be healed right now.

And when she says:

"I'm scared you'll leave because I'm exhausting-"

I break.

Not out loud.

But something in me fractures.

Because how do you look at someone so brave and brilliant and say "you are not too much" and actually make them believe it?

So I pull her in.

Slow. Careful.

And I just hold her.

Not too tight.

Not like she'll break - but like I'll break if I let go.

She doesn't speak again.

She just cries.

Tears that feel like they've waited years to fall.

I rest my chin against her head and whisper,

"You don't have to be okay for me to stay."

Because I mean it.

Every word.

I'll stay.

When she's quiet.

When she's angry.

When she can't eat.

When she doesn't want to be touched.

I'll stay.

She melts into me like she's trying to become invisible.

But to me, she's the most seen she's ever been.

And I swear right there, in the silence of my room, I'll carry this for her.

Whatever she needs.

Whatever I can.

I don't kiss her.

I don't touch her more than she allows.

I just hold her.

And maybe that's what love looks like right now.