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I’ll watch him test versions of nicknames with other friends, but mine will only ever be Peach. When I eventually ask him why, he’ll tell me it’s because he knew exactly who I was to him from the start.
It’s a gift to know someone when you’re in love with them, and a curse when you’re out of it.
Maybe I didn’t give him all of me, but I gave him more than I ever gave anyone else, and instead of taking it back I locked it up. Now saying anything about how we used to be, how much I loved him, feels like unlocking it again. I’m scared he’s going to see what was left over when we broke up. What’s starting to spark again with a little bit of oxygen.
How strange it is to have a first for the second time. How lucky and messy and perfect.
“Fuck, the way I’ve wanted you,” he breathes against my mouth. “I don’t know how anyone can look at me and not see it.”
I love him, and I want to scream because I can’t do anything about it.
“I’m in love with you,”
“Again?”
“Still.”
“When I say I’m still in love with you,” he says quietly, “I mean today and yesterday and this entire week. I mean at Nick and Miriam’s wedding and I mean for the past five years.” If possible, he gets even quieter, but now he’s closer so I get every word. “When I say I’m still in love with you, I mean the first time I saw you and right now. I mean every second in between.”
Even though you say “it’s fine” when it’s not. Even though I can see you pushing me away, and I don’t know how to get to you. Or if I even deserve to. Even though it hurts to love you sometimes. Even though I can’t make you happy.
It’s a privilege to have someone trust you enough to show you those pieces of themselves, the most vulnerable and tender, the least polished. It’s a show of trust to let you see them first thing in the morning, in the middle of a panic attack, right after they’ve cried. To give you a shaky smile after a messy fight. To come back to you again and again with their heart in their hands.
he wants to love me in totality. I have to let him. Isn’t that the way I deserve to be loved—completely, messily, imperfectly? Isn’t that the way I deserve to love myself?
