"Breathe with me," he whispered, guiding me through each inhale and exhale. "In this space, there's only peace."
As the minutes passed, I felt the storm within me quiet. Liam's presence was a balm, his unwavering support a reminder that I wasn't alone.
"When you're ready," he said softly, "we'll face everything together. But for now, just be."
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, I allowed myself to simply exist, free from fear, anchored by affection. But I know the weight of my past won't lift until I confront the demons I've tried so hard to ignore. I will face them soon.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Stardust at Your Feet
In many ways, the last two months had been a dream.
Liam and I slipped into a rhythm, one that felt soft and sure, like the ocean lapping against shore. We went on long drives beneath starlit skies, shared coffee in sun-drenched cafés, and spent entire afternoons wrapped up in laughter and lazy kisses. He'd surprise me with late-night meteor showers, and I, in turn, took him on small adventures, hidden bookshops, picnics in places I swore no one else knew, even a spontaneous stargazing trip to a dark-sky park.
He made me feel adored. Chosen. Seen.
Aaron meanwhile kept sending letter after letter—pages filled with tangled apologies, words dipped in remorse and stitched with hope. He wrote about the nights he couldn't sleep, the mornings that felt empty without me, the way patience was eating at him but he was willing to wait as long as it took. Every envelope smelled faintly of his cologne, as if he hoped the scentwould carry a piece of him to me. Alongside the letters came small gifts, things he said reminded him of me: a pressed flower from a hike we once took, a scarf in my favorite shade of blue, books he thought I'd love. Each one felt like a quiet knock on my heart, asking to be let back in.
So even during the most perfect moments with Liam—there was a whisper at the back of my mind. A quiet thread of doubt. Guilt. Insecurity.
Is this too soon?
Do I deserve this happiness?
The house was quiet in the way only late evenings could be, filled with soft, familiar sounds: the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of old wood, the gentle clink of my spoon against the mug I kept stirring, even though my tea had long gone cold.
Dad sat across from me at the kitchen table, his reading glasses slipping low on his nose as he flipped a page in his book. The lamp beside him cast a soft amber glow that made the kitchen feel warmer than usual. Safe. Still, my stomach churned.
I'd been holding everything in for too long. He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine for just a second before he closed the book slowly. "You've been quiet lately," he said gently. "Something on your mind?"
That's all it took. One small opening, and suddenly the ache I'd been carrying began to rise, pressing against my throat. I stared down at my mug, afraid that if I looked at him too long, I'd fall apart completely.
"I don't know what to do," I whispered.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady the swirling thoughts in my mind. The words caught in my throat, thick and tangled, but I forced them out anyway.
"You know I have to go back to my studio soon," I began, my voice barely above a whisper. "And part of me is excited. I miss it—my space, my work, the rhythm of creating again. But another part of me... it's terrified. Because this, this thing with Liam, it's been so beautiful and that scares me."
I felt the tears welling up again, hot and unwelcome.
"I feel guilty," I admitted, my chest tightening. "Guilty for feeling this happy with him. Guilty because it's only been a few months and it already feels so deep, so real. Like I could fall all the way in. But also... insecure."
I looked down at my hands in my lap, twisting my fingers together.
"What if he leaves?" My voice cracked, the words tasting like old fears I thought I'd buried. "What if he wakes up one day and realizes I'm not enough? That I'm too much, or too broken, or just... not what he thought I was. What if this is just the honeymoon phase, and one morning he looks at me and sees every flaw, every scar, and decides he can't love me through them?"
I could feel my dad's steady gaze on me, his silence telling me I could keep going.
"Aaron left," I said, louder this time, the name sharp on my tongue. "After six years. Six. I gave him everything. I thought that kind of time meant something, that love like that couldn't just disappear. But it did. Or at least, it wasn't enough to keep usfrom breaking. So how am I supposed to believe that something so new with Liam won't fall apart too?"
The words spilled out in a rush, raw and unfiltered. I swallowed hard and looked up, eyes full of tears.
"Sometimes I think this is just the calm before another storm, and the worst part? Liam has done nothing to deserve this fear, this doubt. He's been patient, kind, constant and yet, I'm still scared that the second I lean in too far, he'll let go."
"And then I can't get rid of the letters," I said, my voice catching. It felt like something sharp was lodged in my throat, a truth I didn't want to admit but could no longer keep buried. "They're still there... in that drawer, tucked away like ghosts. I've opened them. Reread them. I don't even know why. It's not that I want to go back to Aaron. I don't. But the idea of throwing them away—it feels so... final. Like closing a door I haven't fully accepted was ever opened."
My voice trembled, my heart thudding hard in my chest. "And that makes me feel guilty too. Guilty towards Liam. Am I betraying him somehow? By holding onto these pieces of a life I no longer want but can't quite let go of?"
The tears came again, fast and full. I couldn't stop them this time. My shoulders shook under the weight of it all—confusion, guilt, fear. This unbearable sense that no matter what I did, I was doing something wrong.
