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“You,” he says, voice deep, almost too low to hear. “How the fuck do you smell like this?” Less than ten minutes later he slips a ring around my finger, and we swear to love each other till the day we die.
“What I am is an adult woman with agency and the tools to make choices. Feel free to, you know, treat me accordingly.”
“I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.”
He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.”
Maybe you’re not meant for me the way I’m meant for you, but I’m going to choose you anyway, over and over and over again.
