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‘No—‘
‘Archer,’ I say. ‘Look at me.’ He does, and I choose to ignore the tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘You have to let me go.’
Archer Toban stares at me. It’s like stripping someone of their armour, and each removed piece is a feeling cast aside, discarded, until they become strangers again. Untilwebecome strangers again.
Strangers with memories.
His face contorts. ‘Please don’t go,’ he pleads, but he releases me. Giving me the choice. The only one he’s ever given me.
But I choose to turn away from him.
I don’t look back.
???
When you love the possibility of someone, you’re loving an idea of them that you’ve created. You’ll never accept that person as they are. You have an idealised fantasy of what love is, what it looks like, feels like, tastes like… No one loves anyone as they are; no one loves everything about a person. And if you do, then you don’t really know that person at all.
No one likes flaws, as much as we want to think we do. We’re relieved when we find them, if only to make ourselves feel better about our own. But we choose to love that person, despite their flaws. And when someone has more flaws than good parts, you hold out hope that you’ll be enough. To change them. To make them want to change. To make them want to change the parts that make up who they are.
Love is not unconditional.
Some people mould themselves into the perfect candidate; others show you exactly who they are from day one. Laying out everything before you as if to sayHere I am, every single shattered piece of my soul. Take me or leave me.
Archer showed me exactly who he was, but I wanted him anyway. He hurt me, but I wanted him anyway. He showed me his flaws, and I saidI see you, and I want you anyway. I think we’re all drawn to what’s beautiful and a little troubled, and I was drawn to him. His dark thoughts spoke to my dark thoughts. And I think maybe I was a little troubled. There’s nothing like bonding over similar circumstances. We understood those empty parts of each other.
But it wasn’t love. We clung to each other, afraid to let go, of being alone. Afraid there’d never be anyone for us again. But the difference is that I healed from my troubles, and he didn’t.
Archer was flawed, but the parts I disliked were the broken bits. The bits I couldn’t put back together, no matter how many times I tried. Whenever he came apart like shattered porcelain, I cut myself on the shards trying to hold him together. I brunted the agony, letting myself bleed.
Sometimes, you have to break your own heart. Sometimes, you have to walk away. Sometimes, that idea of love isn’t enough.
I cry on the drive home. I weep for him, for the boy watching his dad beat his mum, setting the flagstones for what love looks like. For the mum who betrayed his trust, making him believe that’s all he was worthy of. For the boy who had to raise three sisters and then have one ripped away from him. I weep for every shred of pain he’s endured. The broken boy. The shattered one.
Because that’s all we are: every part of us is made up of all the moments we’ve had to endure.
I don’t even notice the car isn’t moving anymore until Chase opens my door and helps me out. He’s said nothing to me yet; he just let me cry, let me grieve. The chill makes my tears feel like ice. He grabs a few bags from his boot and he takes my hand wordlessly as we walk into his house.
‘Watch where you walk,’ he murmurs.
But he doesn’t flick on the light. I’m still holding his hand as he guides me into the kitchen. He sets his things down on the island before light blares up.
The first things I see are the bags and boxes of cat food. My mind still hasn’t caught up when two bundles of fur bound up to me. They wind through my ankles, screaming like those plant things offHarry Potter.
I gasp and drop to the floor, gathering the wriggling blobs into my arms.
But these aren’t just any cats.
One is fully black with one eye, the other black-and-white with a grey spot on its nose.
They can’t be—
I snap my head around to look at Chase. He’s already watching me with a smile, his hands stuffed into his pockets. ‘You mentioned something about a Thor and a Skittles at the funeral,’ he explains, ‘and I just knew they had to be cats. I know how much your dad loved cats. I went to see them last week and put a reserve on for them, and I picked them up today.’ His smile falters slightly. ‘I’m sorry I was late tonight. They kept clinging to me when I tried to leave—‘
I don’t give him time to finish his sentence because I jump up and throw myself at him. Literally throw myself at him.
He chuckles as he catches me. One arm wraps beneath my thigh, the other hand tangling into my hair, holding my head against his shoulder. He seems to inhale slowly, as if he’s breathing me in, but maybe I imagine it.
I don’t care. I just wish my dad was here to see this. I bet he’s smiling down at me right now.
