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I want to tell him.
I want him to know and not think of me differently.
But there's no way to guarantee that.
My breath catches in my throat.
This is a risk.
I've spent my life avoiding risks.
This time, I'm not running away from potential hurt.
Here goes nothing.
"Joel, I…" I take his hand and bring it to the inside of my wrist. "I used to cut… though… I guess 'used to' is a little strong."
"You still do?"
"A few times over the semester."
He runs his fingertips over my skin in a back and forth pattern. Then his finger catches a scar. He traces its line.
"Only when it was really bad. The pressure from the tests… I didn't know how else to handle it."
He keeps tracing scars.
He doesn't say anything.
Fuck.
What does that mean?
My eyelids flutter closed. My body goes numb. I can't feel anything but the crushing weight of expectations. This is changing how he looks at me. I can feel it.
"Bella." His voice is still soft. Still sweet. "When was the last time?"
"Finals."
"Where?"
"Here." I take his hand and bring it to my upper arm. That's an easy spot to hide. I've gotten smarter as I've gotten older.
"That was what, two weeks ago?"
"About that."
"Bella… Fuck." He turns me around. His hand goes to my chin. He tilts my head so we're eye to eye. "Thank you."
"Thank you?" A tear stings my eye. I can't make sense of any of the feelings whirling around my stomach. Why is he thanking me?
Why isn't he reacting… why…
"For telling me. I know that shit is hard." His hand curls around my wrist. Gently he brings my arm to his mouth and places a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist.
My chest is still heavy. But this… this seems good.
Is this really okay?
