Amos listened to my story with so much patience, so much kindness.
Not with pity, but with a quiet understanding.
He made me feel safe enough to be seen at my worst.
???
Exhaling slowly, I ruminate on each word from the page.
To be fearful of the night.
There’s such a huge difference between night and darkness.
I only fear one.
I’ve spent years being afraid of a darkness that reaches far beyond sunset.
A darkness that has followed me long after my escape.
A fear that was instilled in me from birth.
That darkness still sharpens every noise and shadow years later.
It controls me far more than it should.
Sam has been helping a little.
A lot, actually.
The past is a door I’ve kept sealed.
A door that rarely opens.
I’ve curated a life and identity shaped by control and intention.
By careful decisions.
A life that shields me from pain and disappointment.
From vulnerability.
Until this year, it also shielded me from love.
But not anymore.
I have loved... too fondly to be fearful...
It isn’t Amos's job to heal my pain.
I don’t need a rescuer.
Still, it’s comforting to no longer face the world alone.
I’ve found refuge in inked arms that offer solace, not pain.
A home without tension or unpredictable rage.
A home filled with laughter and belonging.
