“You seem too obsessed with the idea of loving yourself,” his eyes hover over me. The familiar scrutiny I've endured too often. As he meets my eyes, he continues, “But when I look at you, I wonder whether you know what it means.” It is a piteous remark, my stomach knots, my fists tighten, and tears threaten, but I refuse to yield to them.
The agony seems to stem from the sincerity in his gaze, his accusation cutting through me like a knife, insinuating my incapacity to confront the truth. Or perhaps it's the bitter recognition that I've fallen for a tormentor—a man who delights in my suffering, reveling in the power he holds over me.
“I do,” I claim, and desperately so as I avert my gaze to the potted plants by the window, and the journals on my desk, each page marked by the tear-stains of my sorrow. For me, sadness has become an inseparable companion, its familiarity woven into the fabric of my being. While I shouldn't feel insulted by its presence, I yearn to clarify—to tell him that it's the echoes of my mother's rage and the weight of my father's silence that have shaped me thus.
“Why are you here?” His voice, low and solemn, reminds me of the first time we met. I'm taken back to the tender way he spoke my name then, a gentleness so profound it felt fleeting as if it might never grace my ears again. Cradling the delicate balance between his affection and my resentment, I hold his essence in my hands, on one side, all the things I cherish about him, and on the other, the grievances I carry.
There's a delicate balance within me, a fragile equilibrium nestled in my chest. Neither love nor resentment spills over, each contained within its own confines. It's as though he senses it too, that I love him, yet not enough to leave, that I resent him, yet not enough to walk away.
“I love you,” the words slip from my lips unbidden, a reflexive response. Isn't it love that keeps me tethered to him?
Yet, I've been conditioned to equate being chosen with love, regardless of the burden it carries. He's aware of the loathing, my inability to meet my own gaze in the mirror, the scars etched into my skin—the imperfections that make me cower and hide. And yet, he returns, drawn to my brokenness as though it were a cherished part of me.
In his gaze, I catch a sickening reflection of myself. Does he despise his own inability to walk away, or does his resentment lie with me? Am I a mirror to someone from his past, or do I merely reflect his own inner turmoil?
“I…I…” he’s too drained to say it but at least he tried. “You should get some sleep,” he finally says, his arms encircling me, drawing me close to his chest.
Slowly, I sink into the warmth of his embrace, his heartbeat a comforting rhythm. It's not just the physical hold he has on me, there’s more. Though thoughts of leaving have dawdled in the recesses of my mind, tonight they seem distant, almost unreachable. Tonight, I lack the strength to entertain them.
Two fractured souls, two embodiments of hypocrisy, yet no one warned me that this isn't love. No one told me that its familiarity is merely the shelter of a naive, lost child.
For me, this is forever…
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