His head slowly turns toward the sound, and he starts blinking without a clear understanding of what’s happening.
I should proceed slowly—that’s what every book would tell you—but I can’t. I succumb to my emotions, and my feet carry me toward him.
Once I’m by his side, he lifts his head and blinks again.
“Are you real?” he croaks.
“I am,” I whisper and kneel by him.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is coarse like he’s been yelling at a stadium for hours.
“I got your voicemail.”
“Oh.” His cheeks pinken.
“Yeah, and I came to tell you that I love you too.” I carefully put my hand on top of his. The one he’s holding the gun with.
“You still do?”
“I always will.” I carefully move my fingers on his grip. “May I have this?”
He looks down at our hands, as if only now recognizing that he’s been holding a gun all along. He lets go, and my fingers wrap around it. I quickly stand up and move it to the cabinet in the kitchen. Then I rush back to kneel by his side.
His eyes are trained on his lap, his hands fisted on the floor by his sides.
“Stephan,” I call his name quietly, but he refuses to look at me. Instead, his fists squeeze tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Stephan,” I repeat in the same soothing voice.
No reaction.
So I put my finger under his chin and turn his face toward mine. When he faces me, my breath hitches. I can see the turmoil on it. A raw, unretouched painting of agony. His pain is here, I can touch it with my fingertips.
My heart bleeds for this man. And for everyone else out there. I canfeelthe pain he’s going through, and I can share it with him. But how many out there don’t have anyone in their corner. I understand him now. I truly do.
The edges of his face are sharper, his lips tighter.
“Stephan.” The name comes as a plea, and his whole, large body shudders.
“Go home, Leila.” He hides his face in his hands. “Please, go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I can’t use you as a fuckin’ crutch.” He’s still hiding his face, so his words come out muffled.
“I’m happy to be your crutch as long as you need me to be.” I cover his hands with mine and gently pull them away from his face. “Look at me.”
He finally lifts his eyes to meet mine. They’re raw and unhinged, with no barrier or pretty mask to hide behind. He is what he is—a broken, wonderful man who became a part of me.
“I can’t face you, Lei.” His voice is tired.
“Why?” I whisper, grabbing his hands in mine and not letting him pull them away.
“Look at me.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m a fuckin’ mess. You don’t need that in your life.”
“It just so happens that a mess is exactly what I’m lacking.” I smile.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Not like this. Look at me. Drunk out of his mind, on the fuckin’ floor with a gun in his hands. I won’t even be able to look you in the eyes ever again.”
I drop his hands and grab his face instead. I move mine closer to his.
