Credence

by Penelope Douglas

If you don’t put yourself out there, you don’t hurt.

Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.

It was such a weird thing to see. Families who played together.

Snowfall isn’t like rainfall. Rain is passion. It’s a scream. It’s my hair sticking to my face as I wrap my arms around him. It’s spontaneous, and it’s loud. Snowfall is like a secret. It’s whispers and firelight and searching for his warmth between the sheets at two a.m. when the rest of the house is asleep. It’s holding him tightly and loving him slowly.

Jealous, immature, batshit son of a bitch.

They’re such deep sleepers, they don’t hear you at night. Just me. When I touched your face, you quieted. When I tried to leave, the nightmare started again. So I stayed. I come in every night. You tuck your cold feet between my legs, and I hug you to me, resting my hand on your back and feeling your body calm as it nestles into me. Do I make you feel safe? I like taking care of you.

Let’s not be friends. Let’s fight and laugh and make babies someday and go insane, because I’m fucking in love with you.

Credence. I’m close enough to read it now. It means “belief as to the truth of something.”

“My home is where you are,” he says quietly.