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I might lose him forever.
I suck a breath between my teeth. My exhale is heavy enough my hands shake. No. They're still shaking.
I'm shaking.
"I..." Too many words rise up in my throat. They knock together. They take over my head and my lips and my heart.
Then he's running his fingers through my hair with that impossibly soft touch.
And I'm still terrified to lose him.
But it's scarier, the thought of being alone with this forever.
"I don't know a better way to say this." My hands are shaking, but I press on. "I'm broken."
He doesn't say anything. He just combs his fingers through my hair again.
"I have depression. I guess that's normal. Relatively. But I... last year. That was when it started. It was before Grandma's heart attack. It wasn't because of anything. Everything got hard. Heavy. Food didn't taste as good. My favorite books no longer entertained. It was like I was moving through water. It took so much energy to make dinner or clean my room. Or even get out of bed in the morning. I couldn't sleep, but I didn't want to do anything else."
His fingertips brush my neck. My shoulders.
I can't see his face. I have no idea how he's taking this. But I can't wait to know.
I need to get this out. All of it.
"Then I started having these thoughts. I'd be driving Mom's car up the 405 and I'd think about crashing into the divider. Or I'd see sleeping pills in the cabinet and think about downing the bottle. Or look at some tall building, and try to figure out if I could actually get to the roof. I didn't make plans to kill myself. But the thought of it—of not hurting anymore—it was tempting. And I... I felt like everyone would be better off if I wasn't dragging them down. Then I'd think about how sad my parents would be and I'd feel guilty and that would only make it worse."
He pulls me closer.
"I understand now. It's my messed-up brain chemistry. I take medication. I see a therapist. She helped me understand a lot of it. And the medications stops most of the thoughts. But not always. Sometimes they flood my head, and I can't stop thinking I'll never be good enough. Sometimes, things get heavy again. It's short phases now. But it might be longer one day. Medications stop working. Life gets stressful. And I... one day, those voices might be loud enough to convince me to do it."
I'm still shaking.
I want, so badly, to turn around and look in his eyes. To figure out what he's thinking. But I can't. If it's bad, I'll lose my nerve. Then I'll never get this out.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "I need you to know. It's not a phase. It's forever. I'm always going to be broken—"
"You're not broken."
"You can use another word, but it will mean the same thing. My brain is fucked up. It will always be fucked up. I'm always going to be fighting the voice that tells me I'm worthless. That everyone would be better off if I wasn't around. Can you really love someone like that? Someone who might fall and end everything?"
"Are you thinking about it now?"
"No. It's been awhile since I've really considered it. But I still have fleeting thoughts. And I always will. I just... I want you to know the reality. I see how you look at me. Like I'm heaven sent. But I'm not."
Slowly, he turns me around. His hand goes to my chin. He tilts my head so we're face-to-face.
I keep my gaze on his chest for as long as I can stand it.
My eyes meet his.
He's... I don't know. I just don't.
He cups the back of my head with his hand. "Thank you."
What?
I...
