I have nothing to lose.
“Because I’m looking at you right now, in the middle of the night, and all I can see is a beautiful blond girl that has the most gorgeous eyes and the prettiest face. All I can see is a girl that has beautiful, pink cheeks, and the brightest red heart out there. A million thoughts are running in your eyes, each one proving just how smart you are.”
I break down again, and all I can think about is every single description I label myself, and how utterly different it is from the ones he is labeling me.
When I finally start to calm down, hiccuping breaths and all, I manage to whisper, “Luca?”
“Yeah.”
“I hate crying in front of people,” I confess, my voice so small it almost isn’t there.
“It makes me feel weak. Like I’m… disgusting. Like I’m making a mess no one should have to see.”
His arms tighten around me a little.
“You’re not weak.”
“You don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head against his chest. My words come out jagged. “You don’t see what’s in my head. The things I think about. How gross it feels to even be in my own skin sometimes. I don’t deserve—”
“Stop.” He says it softly, but firmly.
It hurts.
Not like a hit. More like someone gently taking a knife out of your hand before you hurt yourself.
Embarrassment flows through every fiber of my being, and looking at him makes me dizzy.
I blink up at him through my tears anyway. My cheeks burn, raw from wiping at them.
“You’re not disgusting,” he says. “You’re not gross. You’re not weird. You’re not ugly, on the inside or outside; you’re enough for all kinds of love. And you know what?”
He lifts my chin to look at him.
“Your baggage is not too much for me, Tilly. It doesn’tscareme . You’ve been carrying this by yourself so long that you think you’re the problem.” His eyes don’t leave mine for a second, and I can see the pain and honesty in them
“You. Are. Not. The. Problem.”
I let out a shaky laugh, “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know,” he says.
His voice cracks just a little, like something inside him is breaking too, but he keeps going. “Feelings aren’t facts. You’re not your worst nights. You’re not your thoughts at 3 a.m. You’re the person sitting here right now. And that person deserves to be seen. All of her. Even the parts she hates.”
I press my forehead against his shoulder, eyes burning. “Why are you so nice to me?” It comes out more likewhy do you bother?
“Because someone should have been, a long time ago,” he says simply.
I didn’t realize how much I needed this.
Him letting me be a mess.
Letting me breathe.
Letting me exist without having to pretend.
The kitchen feels warm despite the night air leaking in from the window.
Outside, the sea whispers against the shore, steady and endless, like it doesn’t care who broke or healed tonight.
