“You believe me,” he says, like he’s still processing it.
He sinks onto the bench and drags a hand over his face, eyes staring toward the dark edges of the garden. He’s tense—too still, too silent.
I take a seat beside him. Not close. A full foot of space between us. But then something pushes me—I don’t even know what—and I reach out, resting my hand gently on his shoulder. A simple squeeze.
He exhales, like his entire body just remembered how to breathe. The tension drains from him in waves.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes squeezing shut. “This is the first time you’ve touched me since... well. In a long time.”
My lips part. Is that true?
Shit. It is.
We sit there quietly, the silence stretching but never heavy. I don’t move my hand.
Slowly—carefully—he reaches up and lets his fingers brush against mine. The jolt hits instantly. The fear. The pain. The ache. Thelove.
But I don’t pull away.
“Aarohi—”
“Rohi,” I correct gently.
His reaction is immediate. His head turns toward me, eyes slightly wide.
“Rohi,” he repeats, smiling softly. Then he nods. “I was going to say... well,askactually. Do you think you have thirty minutes tomorrow? At exactly this time?”
I frown. “What for?”
He hesitates. Just for a second. Like he’s about to bail on whatever he’s about to say. But then I watch him square his shoulders, power through it, and speak anyway.
“There’s a Canadian non-profit calledKind Mirror,” he says, voice low but steady. “I’ve been... I’ve been working with them for the past month. Helping them develop a new program.”
He clears his throat, like something’s lodged there.
“They already have one in place—for people going through healthy weight loss and mental recovery. It includes therapy, nutrition guidance... all that. But I’m helping build something for theotherside of the spectrum.”
I blink.
I don’t speak. Because what even is there to say when someone just casually hits you in the heart like that?
He went and didthat.
For me?
“You... what? You’re like a member?” I ask, still trying to piece it together.
He gives me a soft, almost shy smile. “No. Just a volunteer. And donor.”
My mouth falls open. “What—what do you needmefor?”
He pauses, then answers carefully. “They’re building a more inclusive model. And they’re looking to include voices from people who’velivedit. I didn’t promise anything, okay? I just told them I’d ask you. If you were willing to share your experience. Along with a few others. For the sake of shaping something that... actually helps.”
My breathing picks up.
I can feel the tight pressure behind my eyes, the way my chest pinches from the sheer ache of how thoughtful this is. He didn’t tell me. He just did it. Quietly. Intentionally.
And it’s almost too much.
