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Until there’s nothing to back them up with.
How?
How are we going to cope with our addictions and the way they hurt us? Are we going to continue down this path, clinging desperately to the other person while we battle our way through, only to inevitably hurt the other? Are we going to wake up each morning to the sun filtering through the windows and decide that this is the day we separate the emotion from the addiction and live like that?
Or are we going to call, talk to people, lay it out? Are we going to deal with therapy and the highs and lows? Are we even going to try?
Are we going to look past the idealistic thoughts we have, or are we just going to sit around like a couple of teens waiting for the answer to fall into our laps?
I know Tyler’s answer. Believe. Try. Wait. Hope that some little fairy will come along and wave their damn wand and make it better.
That’s not how it works. Maybe we have to be apart to make it work.
We might not have anything to lose when we’re apart, but we sure as hell have everything to fight for.
And the fact that you might not win the fight is a far scarier thought than losing something you never thought would go.
Maybe the key is to be together but not. Maybe seeing each other, talking, but not really having one another, is the key. Because then we’ll remember, every day, what we’re fighting for. We’ll have something to work toward.
Maybe it’s a coffee date, breakfast, or dinner. Maybe it’s a movie or a doctor’s appointment. Maybe it’s even a sleepover.
Just something small, mostly insignificant—the little things that change everything.
I don’t believe for a second that Tyler will haul his ass willingly into therapy. For him, I would. I hated every second, but if therapy means managing this and if managing this means having him, I’ll go through hours of hell and hurt.
All of it. For him. For me. For the baby.
Without a second thought. Because we’re more than addiction. It’s hard to remember sometimes; we’re stronger than the ties that bound us in the beginning.
We’re not addiction. We’re love in its strongest, purest form, no matter how wrinkly or rough it is. We’re indestructible, and I truly believe that, one day, we’ll be able to weather any storm.
Right now, we’re the eye of the storm. We’re the tornado touching down on the ground, and our relationship is in a whirlwind, destructive spin above us. If we try hard enough, we can slow the spin and the devastation.
If we try hard enough, we can erase the storm and pave the way for the mess to be fixed.
My bed dips as I roll over, yawning. I snuggle back into the covers and reach for the quilt. It feels like something hard, something warm, though. And then fingers link through mine and lips close over mine.
Soft, wet lips. Lips I know.
Lips I know. They’re tender, and I tilt my head back to take more of the kiss, because warmth spreads through me at it.
They’re salty, like endless tears are streaming onto them.
I take my hand and reach up, my palm resting against familiar stubble, and wipe at the wet cheeks. I don’t want to open my eyes, because if I do that, it’s not a dream any more. I’m awake but asleep right now.
As soon as my eyes open, I can’t pretend. So I fight it, fight to keep them closed. Because if I’m dreaming, I’m not contradicting everything I said to myself earlier.
The addict in me wants to destroy itself. Just a little more. One last time.
Tyler sweeps me against him fully and takes my mouth once more. Each touch is like drizzly raindrops falling on dry ground. Slow, easy, light. Every sweep of his tongue is explorative, leaving no part of my mouth not touched, and mine does the same, drinking in him like he’s my life elixir.
His hands, as tender and sweet as his tongue, caress my curves one by one. They stroke and they slide, and his fingers splay, brushing my skin. Every touch is slow and easy, filled with more than anything before.
I want to hold on, because tomorrow, this more will be broken again.
Tyler sweeps his hand down to my thigh and eases my leg up and over his body. Our hips come together at his urging, his hardening cock between us. I ache, too. I ache to feel him once more because I don’t know when the next time will be.
I ache for him to fuck me as softly as he’s kissing me.
