Passion Project

by London Sperry

His lips skate across my eyelashes, my cheekbone, my chin, my mouth. My mantra come to life in front of my eyes as he touches me. My cheeks are real. My chin is real. My lips are real. I am real.

Omg I'm crying!!

Henry is real.

You’re safe with me. That’s all I see in his eyes when he looks at me. That’s all I feel in his lips when he kisses me. You’re safe with me.

“Don’t ever get any more tattoos,” I say as I kiss his chest. “I’ll explode.” “Note to self,” he says as he tangles his fingers in my hair. “Get more tattoos.”

It feels like he’s scratching the edges of my soul.

This is such an accurate simile lol

Here, I’m broken, but in a beautiful way, in a way that all my pieces reflect light and color, not darkness.

He moves into me like a rainstorm, and I want no shelter.

He laughs and kisses me on the nose. “I like you so much.”

My skin tingles. “I like you too,” I say.

how passion can feel a lot like joy if you let it.

I spill some consommé on a shirt Henry let me borrow, and when I loudly proclaim what a mess I am, he tells me, “Stop saying that about someone I like so much.” I agree never to say it again.

For the first time in a very long time, in this exact place with this exact person, I feel like I’m right where I need to be.

I’ve been in a committed relationship with my misery ever since I moved here, and Henry has made me a mushy pile of hope.

I know I want to be happy. I know that deep down, every fiber of my being wants to experience good things again, wants to love again. And yet. And yet there’s something stopping me from giving in to it all. Something messed up in my brain chemistry that focuses on the hurt and the pain. As if I don’t deserve to live any other way.

His endless empathy and understanding, his kindness and sincerity even when I make mistakes…it’s almost too good to be true. Too good to be true for me, at least. Too good for me to deserve.

“I just think you want to be mad about something. I think you want to be miserable because you’re afraid to be happy.”

You deserve to be happy, Bennet, but so do I,” he says.

“I want you to know that even if I love other people, it is only possible because I also love you. I am forever better because you were in my life.”

I’ve handled so much in my life that I never thought I could. I’m ready for heartbreak just as much as I’m ready for love. But, god, do I hope this doesn’t end in heartbreak.

It’s realizing that you might be broken, but that doesn’t mean you can’t heal. That doesn’t mean you can’t be loved.

It’s waking up every day and deciding that it’s worth it.

You showed me love doesn’t care about whether or not you have your shit together, or if you’re a grieving mess. Love doesn’t care if you’re anxious or depressed or drowning in everyday life. Love just loves.

All I know is that this matters. He matters. I matter.

But we never push each other away anymore. We always let the other in. We take care of each other.

I am strong. I am resilient. I am kind. I always have been. I am proud that I’m able to say it, and even more proud that I believe it.

This life is one that I didn’t feel worthy of, but I now know I am. It’s not too good to be true. It’s just true.

In his arms I’m reminded that happiness doesn’t need to be shrouded in guilt. Love doesn’t need to be shrouded in disbelief. Sometimes it just is. And that’s enough.