I grew up telling myself that it was easier to be hated. It was easier to carry this anger than deal with what laid beneath it. It was easier to hold power and control.
To keep myself from getting hurt, I told myself that I had to stay guarded. I couldn’t get attached; I had to push away any good thing because if I didn’t, I would ruin it, or it would become lost.
For a long time, that had been who I was.
Now, I’ve morphed into something different, something painted with the essence of Amelia.
Drowning in her purity, her pain, and her beauty.
Amelia was everywhere, and I didn’t want to run anymore.
Seeing her fall beneath the water, not coming to the surface for what seemed like forever, broke something inside of me. I realized she was everything I needed to survive and to feel complete, and I couldn’t lose her.
But Dante had to fucking mess my head up by saying what he said.
He was right, I would break her with my anger.
I’ve learned to control it, but if pushed hard enough, it was like a dam coming apart, and once unleashed, this anger would ruin everything in its path like a hurricane.
Including Amelia.
But I was trying. That had to count for something, right? Trying not to lose it, even when it felt like my whole brain was made of broken glass and every step forward just tore open old wounds.
I split the last log and left the axe blade buried in the stump. My hands shook with something colder than the wind. I wiped them on my jeans, sap and blood smudging together, then went around the front of the house.
Inside, the windows had fogged with the heat of bodies and tea. I could see Amelia and Dante through the glass, sitting at the kitchen table, heads tipped toward each other.
Their hands were close, almost touching. I watched, invisible, as she laughed at something he said, her cheeks flushed, the fire of it visible even from here.
It should have gutted me, but all I felt was a numb, gnawing ache. A hunger for something I had no right to want.
I hated how easy she made it look: the way she could let him in, the way she could put herself back together after a disaster and act like she didn’t still have water in her lungs.
I went inside, careful not to slam the door. Both of them looked up. Amelia’s eyes went first to my hands, tracking the mess of them, then to my face. She didn’t say anything, but the way her mouth twitched made me feel both seen and skinned.
Dante nodded at me. “There’s stew on the stove. You should eat.”
I shrugged, went to the sink, and started scrubbing the sap off my palms.
The soap stung like hell, but I kept going, digging grit out from my cuticles with my thumbnail until the blood ran clean. I could hear them talking behind me, barely above a whisper.
By the time I finished, my hands were red and raw. I poured myself a mug from the half-empty coffee pot and leaned against the counter, watching the two of them.
Dante had this calm, easy confidence. Like he was born knowing where to put his hands and how to say things that made people relax, even when they wanted to fight.
Amelia was curled into her side of the table, face hidden by her hair, but she looked up and met my eyes for a heartbeat before looking away.
It was only then I noticed how tired she looked.
The kind of tired that can’t be slept off. A bone-deep, marrow-tired that comes from years of holding on to something that aches and burns.
She wrapped both hands around her mug and stared into it like she was waiting for a message to appear in the foam.
I wanted to go up to her, maybe touch her shoulder, say something not fucked up for once. But the words jammed up at the gate.
Instead, I said, “Sorry I yelled.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize for worrying.”
