Page 97 of Last Letters to Ara
“An olive branch for what?”
“Have you ever felt like you’re floating a foot behind your head? Almost like you’re a separate entity, just watching while your anxiety takes away all of your power?”
Theo is quiet a moment. “Yes.”
“Every time it happens, I feel like I’m just there, watching myself whilesomethingorsomeoneelse calls the shots. When I encounter a situation which could be deemed dangerous territory, this thing rears its head and takes control.” My voice is raw with emotion and frustration as I describe what I fight against every day of my life.
“I know what that’s like,” Theo says gently.
“I know you do.” I take a deep breath, willing myself to keep going. “Usually, I can feel the anxiety just lingering, waiting for any excuse to sink its claws into me. When it finally does, I always fight. I tell myself that I am strong enough to overcome it. Then, this feeling of being stuck underwater takes hold. I can’t yell, I can’t speak, I can’t breathe, and I can’t reach myself. It drags me down, down, down until I stop fighting. That’s when I lose.”
We’re both quiet, needing a moment to recover from my truth. I’m unsure whether I’ll have the strength to continue, until the balmy night breeze carrying the scent of the ocean brushes across my face like a comforting caress, as if someone sent it to tell me to keep going.
“Once I come back to the surface, I have to witness the damage this otherthingcaused while I was away, and the people who got hurt because of it.” I turn to face Theo once again. “Even right now, I’mbattlingto tell you.Battling.This was the only place I had a chance of overcoming it, the wide-open peaceful space. As long as I can see far enough in front of me, I have a chance to outrun it.”
A tear slips from my eye, sending Theo into motion, three furiously long strides before he can finally reach me and engulfs me with his arms. One hand comes to the crown of my head, pressing my face into his chest, while the other wraps around my waist and tugs, pulling me closer.
Theo’s strong arms and intoxicating scent keep me grounded, keep me strong in this battle of wills. I’m tired of the fear of failing. I’m tired of the fear of loss. I’m tired of losing control over my own life. I’m tired of it and I’m done.
“I understand, Ara,” he whispers into my ear, following it with a kiss to my hair. “Goddamnit, I understand.”
My very being knows that he speaks truth. The anxiety Theo must have had to fight every night just to get to sleep, terrified that his father would come to his room, is unimaginable. How the physical and mental abuse had driven him to such depths that Connor had to remind him that there were still things worth living for.
“Please don’t give up on me.” Another tear escapes with my request.
I hurt all over. It’s as if I had to shred through layers and layers of self-constructed walls designed to protect my deepest darkest parts, before offering it all to Theo. Gone are the reasons to push him away. Gone are the fortresses created to keep him out.
“Never. I willnevergive up on you.” He declares it to me, to the stars and to the universe.
I believe him.
Theo holds me tighter, as if he knows that he’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart entirely. I don’t know how long we stand there, but after a while the pieces of myself that were torn apart tonight begin to feel less raw, as if something filled with healing magic weaved through and fused them back together. I feel whole again. I feel like myself.
Theo begins to loosen his grip, as if he too feels it. He pulls back and brings his hands to my face. Theo leans down so he is perfectly eye level with me, wanting me to see his soul while he says his next words. “I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere.”
“Not even Dad could fight fate, Theo.” One more tear escapes. “You say we can write our own future, but some things might be out of our control.”
Theo wipes away the moisture, not retreating an inch.
“I don’t care,” he says firmly. “I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere.”
Theo’s words, his promise, soothe the kind of wounds that aren’t visible from the outside. He sees everything, he sees every broken piece of me and refuses to look away or retreat.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything,” he says, still looking into my eyes.
“My dad writes me letters.”
Theo freezes, eyes shuttering ever so slightly. He must think I’m delusional.
“Hewroteme letters, I should say. Past tense. I don’t know how, but he gets them delivered to me once a month.”
“What do they say?”
“Before he died, he apparently wrote a letter for every month of this year. They get delivered on the same day, at almost the same time each month, containing a little window into his soul and his wishes for me.”
“He sounds like an incredible man.” I don’t miss the genuine emotion in Theo’s voice when I speak about my father.
