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“You’ve been horrible to me since the day I walked back into your life, which wasn’t my fault by the way. You’ve ignored me, yelled at me, said and done awful things, you read,” I stumble over the last word, choking on emotions at the reminder of what happened.
“You read my journal, full of private thoughts and emotions. A journal that you still haven’t returned, by the way.”
“It wasn’t a journal and it wasn’t private if my name is all over it,” he grits out.
“But it wasn’t your name, was it? It was a nickname that I gave you that you refuse to acknowledge.”
“It doesn’t matter. They were letters tome,” he starts before I interrupt.
“No, they weren’t. They were thoughts that I wrote down during difficult times. If it was meant to be read by you or they were letters meant to be sent to you, they would have been. But they weren’t, were they?” I ask, fists clenching at my sides as I will my eyes to not release the building tears.
“Only because you didn’t know where I was!” he shouts, his hands flailing at his sides.
“And whose fault is that, Nyx? Huh? I wanted to know your name, who you were. I wanted to see you again! You didn’t want that! You walked away!” I cry, the tears releasing despite my best efforts to hold them in. Nyx takes in my anguish and drops his head before sighing loudly.
We’re both silent for a few minutes, the only sound in the gym our deep breathing.
“Why were you there that day?” he murmurs. I inhale sharply, shocked that he’s bringing that day up, acknowledging it, for the first time with me. “Were you really there to kill yourself?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. I’m not ashamed. I have come a fuck of a long way.
“That day, you said you were running from your past, your memories, your nightmares. Is it because of the accident? Is that why?” He looks up at me now, taking in my face, looking between my eyes and checking for honesty. It instantly hurts my heart because that’s the same thing he did that day we first met.
“Yes,” I answer again, holding his gaze. It’s part of it, so it’s not a lie. It’s just not the main reason. The real reason why I have found myself in life or death situations, choices, so many times before is not because of the accident, though the accident does play into it.
The real reason is that I was in an accident of some sort as a 9-year-old child, abandoned at a hospital with no family, no memories, and a body full of injuries. The reason is that after I recovered from that accident, I was taken in by a man and woman who were supposed to be my second chance at a family, at a good life. The real reason I wanted to kill myself so many times is because that man raped and sexually abused me for years while his wife tortured me and convinced me that her husband’s pedophilia wasmy fault.
But I will never tell these men that.
Never.
I hold Nyx’s gaze, not showing any of the emotions that fill me at the thought of my ex foster parents and their demented ways. I don’t cower under his intense, all-knowing eyes. I show him that I’m being honest, even if it’s not fully.
He nods in acceptance before exhaling a shuttering breath.
“And are you okay now? Have you,” he closes his eyes, “have you tried again, or—” I interrupt when I see he’s struggling with his question.
“I’m okay, Nyx. I really am. I’m different now, stronger. And no, I never tried again, and I won’t. What about you? Did you—” He’s already shaking his head before I can even finish my sentence.
“No, just that day. Never before, and never again. I’m okay, too.” He says this but the pained expression on his face contradicts his words. His face is tortured, broken. Maybe that’s why I do what I do next. I close the few feet between us and hug him, hard.
I wrap my arms around his wide middle, my head barely reaching his chest, and I squeeze. I force my affections, my care, my wordless reminder that he’s not alone, into him, willing him to accept it. After a moment, he tentatively wraps his large arms around me and sets his chin on my head, exactly as he did that day.
We stay in our embrace for a long time, neither of us ready to move, or let go of this moment. I turn my head to the side so I can speak, needing to tell him, needing him to know.
“I wrote to you because you’ve been on my mind every single day for two years. I’ve worried about you. Every day, I worried that you’d gone back to finish it,” I whisper. I hear him breathe deeply before squeezing me harder.
“I thought about you every day, too,” he says, words barely audible. We stand in silence again before he breaks it, still holding on to me. “How much of your list did you make it through?” I chuckle and nuzzle my nose into his shirt, inhaling his warm scent before responding.
“Not much actually, but I’m still working on it.” I can feel his nod, his chin bobbing on top of my head. “I’ve missed you so much, Redwood,” I choke out, squeezing my eyes against a second wave of tears.
I know the moment the words are out that I’ve ruined the truce we were having and that I’m about to lose him again.
With one last squeeze, he releases his hold on me and steps away. His retreating steps don’t stop this time and he never brings his eyes back to mine.
“Good work today. Same time tomorrow,” he mumbles before turning and walking out of the gym, leaving me alone and confused once more.
It seems Nyx and I will never walk away from each other on good terms again.
