Page 27 of Angel
Ithought counseling would fix something. Not everything. I’m not that naïve. But I thought I’d walk out lighter. Like someone had taken the weight off my chest and told me exactly how to carry what was left. Instead, I feel… exposed. Raw in places I didn’t know existed. Like someone peeled back skin; I didn’t realize I’d grown over the hurt.
We don’t talk much on the drive home. Not because anything’s wrong. But because there’s too much right under the surface. Too many truths still settling into place. Angel keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh like a quiet reminder that he’s here.
For months, his presence felt like pressure, like he was trying to brace for my collapse. Now it feels steady. Solid. Not waiting for me to break.
I stare out the window, watching the Texas landscape blur past, flat fields, distant fencing, and sky that goes on forever—and try to untangle what’s spinning inside me. Saying it out loud was harder than I expected. Admitting I was scared, that it felt like my body was betraying me, and I was turning love into math.But hearing Angel say he felt useless?That hit somewhere deep.
I’d been so wrapped up in my own fear, my own failure, that I didn’t see how much this was hurting him too. How he’d been carrying his grief in silence, the same way I had. We weren’t breaking each other. We were protecting each other from loneliness. And somehow, that realization hurts and heals all at once.
Back home, the house feels different, less haunted. Less like every room holds a ghost of something we lost. I walk into the kitchen and automatically reach for the cupboard where I keep the supplements. My hand hovers there. I feel Angel watching from the doorway.
“You don’t have to stop,” he says gently. “Just… don’t disappear into it.”
That’s the difference now. Before, he would’ve told me to slow down. Or tried to hide the bottles. Or swallowed his worry until it turned sharp. Now he just… sees me.
I nod. “I don’t want to anymore.”
That’s the truth. I’m tired of measuring myself in numbers. In temperatures and windows and percentages. Tired of feeling like my worth lives in a cycle tracker, of believing that if I just try harder, hurt harder, sacrifice more, I’ll earn something back. I sit at the table and press my palms flat against the wood.
“I didn’t realize how scared I was,” I admit. “Not just of losing a baby… but of losing me.”
Angel pulls out the chair beside me and sits close enough that our knees touch.
“You don’t have to choose.”
“I know that now,” I say softly.
And I do. That’s the strange thing. The certainty doesn’t feel loud. It feels quiet. Like something settling into place.
That night, we cook dinner together. It sounds stupid, it’s something small most couples do every day, but it’s the first time in months we’ve done it without tension hanging in the air like smoke. Without me counting macros or googling the ingredients. It’s just pasta with garlic and olive oil.
Completely normal.
The smell fills the kitchen, warm and familiar. Angel bumps into me at the stove and mutters something about needing more space. I roll my eyes and shove him lightly with my hip. For a second, it’s just us.
I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. With love. It makes my chest ache in a good way. The kind that reminds me I’m still here.
After dinner, we sit on the couch. No television or distractions. Just the quiet hum of the house settling around us. He pulls me into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I let him. That’s new too. Letting myself be held without feeling like I owe something in return.
Later, in bed, he doesn’t reach for me like it’s owed or it’s time; we’re not racing a clock. He just wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close. I let myself sink into him and be held.
“I’m still scared,” I whisper into the dark.
“Me too,” he says. No hesitation or pretending.
“But we’ll be scared together.”
For once, that doesn’t feel like a failure. It feels like honesty. And honesty feels steadier than hope right now.
The next few days are… uneven. Healing isn’t linear. No one warns you about that either. Some mornings I wake up light. Hopeful even, like maybe we’re turning a corner. I’ll stretch in bed and feel almost normal. Like my body belongs to me again.
Other mornings the grief hits sideways.Sharp and unexpected.I’ll be brushing my teeth and suddenly remember the way the doctor wouldn’t meet my eyes. Or the sterile smell of the hospital and the silence in the car afterward. I have to sit on the edge of the bed until the world stops tilting.
Angel notices. He always does. But he doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t rush in with reassurances; he just sits with me. Sometimes his hand rests on my back, and others he doesn’t touch me at all. Just sits close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
That might be the hardest part. Letting him see the messy bits without scrambling to clean them up. Without performing strength, pretending I’m fine so he won’t worry. It feels like standing in a room without armor. But I don’t feel exposed anymore. I feel…witnessed.
Carrie texts again.
