Wrists

He saw everything. He was judging me. He was weighing me. He knew I was worthless. He knew I was pathetic. He knew my weight. He knew how things worked in my brain. He knew me. All of my bottled emotions broke free, and I collapsed in a heap of tears and desperation.

Strong arms forced me back up onto my feet and held me tightly until my sobs reduced to occasional sniffling and whimpering. He saw it all; he saw my weakest points, he saw me pretending to be in my strongest—he saw what shit he was going to put himself through being attached to me. Would he stay now? Would he still want to be with a fuck-up like me?

“You have to.” He whispered in my ear.

I didn’t have to ask what he meant.

I got away from his grasp. I gave him a weak look, only to be returned with a strong one.

Elijah was so strong.

I had to be, too.

I opened the bedroom door.

And—with an exhale to let out all of my insecurities, and an inhale to pull in confidence—

I called my mother upstairs.