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Is he really accepting this?
I barely manage to exhale. "You're… you're not horrified?"
"No."
"Nothing?"
"If you're still doing this, then I'm not gonna fucking rest until you're getting help."
"But… you don't think there's something wrong with me?"
"Of course there is. Angel, you hurt yourself because you bottle up everything you feel instead of asking for help. But that doesn't make you a bad person."
"You do that too."
"I know." He takes my other arm, brings it to his mouth, plants kisses on my wrist. "I can't talk shit about coping mechanisms. I've drank, fucked, or laughed my way out of everything that bothered me for a long time." He sets my arm down. His eyes find mine. "I get it."
I blink back a tear. "You do?"
He rests his palm on my cheek and brushes a tear with his thumb. "Not exactly, but enough."
"Joel, I…" Fuck. There's another tear. Another. I can't stop them. He's not running away. He's not calling me a freak.
He's accepting this broken, ugly part of me.
The tension in my body is releasing.
The relief is overwhelming.
This time, I don't blink back my tears. I let them fall. I've hidden this for so long. And now he knows… and he's not running away.
He presses his palm between my shoulder blades. "You don't have to justify it. But you can explain." His eyes find mine. "I want to know every part of you, Bella."
"Even the ugly parts?"
"Especially the ugly parts." He leans down to press his lips to mine.
Relief pours out of me. He's here. He's not running.
He's kissing me.
Holding me.
Is this really possible?
When our kiss breaks, I'm shaking.
I look into his gorgeous green eyes. They're filled with understanding.
This time, my exhale isn't quite so heavy. "It started after my mom died. My family, we're not feelings people. I didn't know how to process it. I was mixed up all the time. One day, I bombed some test and I felt like shit. And I didn't know how to deal with that. I don't even remember how I thought of it. Maybe it was a friend or a TV show. The first time I tried, I was so scared I passed out before the razor hit my skin."
He pulls me closer.
"I tried again. That time, it worked. And that pain was concrete. Real. I felt like I deserved it. I felt better, punishing myself. It became a habit. A way to hurt physically instead of mentally. A way to punish myself for failing." My voice drops to a whisper. "The only person I've ever told was my college therapist."
"Yeah?"
I nod. "Stan, my ex… he saw the scars once. He looked at me with this horrified expression. I could tell he knew. And he could tell I knew that he knew. But neither one of us said anything. We never mentioned it. It wasn't that he was a bad person. Just not really… he thought I was this girl who had it all together. I was stepping into that role with him. I never let him see the cracks."
