Near Miss

by Haley Warren

I’m always grinning, even when I don’t feel like it.

My heart beats in my chest, but not really filling itself to its full potential or capacity because it exists in this little cage I’ve drawn around it.

I know what it’s like to be forced to live or exist somewhere that hurts you, and I might have made that choice willingly, but he didn’t.

And I definitely talked too much, but it sort of felt like I was a whole, real person again after a really, really long time.

I’m not really sure I’ve ever had much of a choice about anything.

“It seems unfair to shoulder all your expectations, your hopes and dreams for a team to win a trophy, on one person. Who, at the end of the day, is a person just like you—fallible and capable of making mistakes and, you know, feeling?”

“There’s a difference between self-deprecation and negativity.

“Sometimes I wonder if I was ever a real person, you know? Something beyond all these cookie-cutter adjectives people have stuck to me my whole life.”

But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see this person who’s probably just a shell of someone he was expected to be, not actually who he was, and I wonder if it all came too late.

As she should. Because I think I look at myself like that—I’m something, not nothing—but I’m not quite sure what either.

No one tells me they don’t hate me. That it’s okay. That it was a mistake, that humans are allowed to make them and that’s the beauty of being alive—that

But sometimes, I wish they’d just look at me like they loved me.

There’s a difference between setting boundaries to protect yourself and being alone.”

What it was like for her to trust me. Not because she thought I was dependable and reliable. But because she saw the real me and still thought I was worthy.

“It’s a lot better than it used to be. But sometimes, when I’m not expecting it, my nervous system reacts before my mind can tell it to stop. That it’s just a noise. That I’m not in a car. That I’m not sinking.”

Historically, my family haven’t been good at telling the difference between a fake smile and a real one—they went almost two decades without noticing.

My mind is quiet, and I don’t feel this weird pang that I always do, echoing in the places where I think I’m empty.

“Be someone else. Reliable. Likeable. Who people expect you to be.” I shrug. “You can just be you.”

Back away from the ledge because you’re going to fall. You’ve already fallen off once, and you might not survive again.

I take a deep breath. It doesn’t hurt, and my chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to crack open at any time, like it’s so heavy it’ll never feel right again.

It feels like maybe there are people out there who might like real Beckett, the way Greer sees him.

Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you.

They’re found in the way his smile changes when he’s comfortable in his own skin, the way he makes everyone feel seen and at ease. How when he speaks to you, his eyes are only on you—and he’s always listening. The fact that he brings the most fragrant flowers to a scent-free environment. Loves obscure parts of history and spends too much time talking about reformer Pilates. That he gives away smiles willingly and I don’t think he leaves much for himself.

The way he breathes with you when you can’t do it on your own.

I can’t really hear anything except that pinky promise. Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you. Nine words strung together and said by a friend with a simple enough meaning. But I think I hear him say something else—that maybe he could help me take care of myself, too.

How his laugh strolls across my spine before wrapping around me and clasping itself in the centre of my chest.

“You don’t have to be alone to be enough.”

That I could carve this other vital organ from my body and place it in his hands and he’d keep it safe.

I didn’t want to give him any more pieces of me.

That I’m enough for him even though I’m empty.

Healing isn’t simple and it’s not linear. You aren’t going to wake up one day with the knots of all these complicated feelings untangled.”

It’s just these hours and I don’t want to spend a single second on something other than her.

“I’m not sure I know how to date,” I whisper. “But I want to learn.” He shakes his head. “We aren’t dating.” I arch a brow. “We aren’t?” “No. We’re starting the rest of our lives.”