Page 107 of Dante
Two years. Two fucking years of rebuilding my life. Of a date that went nowhere. Of nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why I couldn't move on.
I told myself it was the trauma. The shooting. The violence. I told myself I was damaged and that's why I couldn't connect with anyone. Why every man I met felt like a stranger speaking a language I'd forgotten.
But that was a lie too.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.
The way he looked at me when he carried me out of that apartment. The way he left when I told him to leave.
I hated him for that.
I hated him for listening. For respecting my wishes. For walking away without a fight.
And I hated myself for wanting him to stay.
I pull my knees to my chest. Wrap my arms around them. Make myself as small as possible.
This is fucked up.
This is so fucked up.
And I can't stop thinking about the way his voice broke when he talked about his family.
I can't stop thinking about the twelve-year-old boy hiding in a closet while his parents and brother were murdered.
I can't stop thinking about the way he saidyou looked at me like I was human.
My chest aches.
He's broken.
I know broken. I see it every day at work. In the foster kids who flinch at loud noises. In the teenagers who can't make eye contact. In the children who've learned that love is just another word for pain.
Dante is broken in the same way. Shattered at twelve and rebuilt into something sharp and dangerous. A weapon that doesn't know how to be anything else.
And I'm broken too.
Different pieces. Different cracks. But broken all the same.
My hand cramps. The right one. I flex my fingers and watch them tremble.
Two broken people don't make a whole.
They make a disaster.
I know this. I've seen it. The couples who cling to each other because they're both drowning. Who drag each other down instead of pulling each other up. Who mistake trauma bonding for love.
That's what this is.
That's all this can be.
He's not in love with me. He's in love with the idea of me. The woman who looked at him like he was human.
And I'm not?—
I'm not anything.
I'm just a woman who got caught in the crossfire. Who happened to open a door at the wrong moment. Who became a symbol of something he lost when he was twelve years old.
