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You didn’t have the language, the words, to tell him that everything had grown too much. Your life crowded by spotlight, blinded by the noise of bystanders and spectators, all for what?
So where words failed, your throat crumbled into broken sobs. And like a feedback loop, he would come to you, take you in his arms, where you were free to hide in them forever.
He doesn’t ask what happened this time, but then again, he never does. He just presses his thumb beneath your eye, like he’s counting something only he can see.
“You’re crying again,” he said, kindly if anything.
Though you tried to breathe, you still couldn’t answer.
He exhaled, slow, like this confirmed something.
“It’s always like this,” he muttered. “You’re trying so hard, and then it catches up to you.”
His hand settled at the back of your neck, as if to guide you.
“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he added. “You never do.”
You swallowed hard, because the words were too big to pass through you whole, broken like shattered glass.
“I think,” you managed, breath stuttering, “I think I’ll start collecting it all.”
His thumb stilled.
“Collecting what?”
You laughed once; a laugh that was sharp and wet, a laugh that hurt your throat.
“Salt water,” you said. “Since that’s all I seem to have left. That’s all they ever see of me anyway. Every picture. Every headline.”
Your words fell from your tongue rapidly, and you shook your head like it made a difference, your eyes burning.
“Crying, looking wrong, looking like I don’t belong beside you.”
The room was too quiet after that, and he studied you for a long moment in the silence, eyeing your breathing rather than your face.
“They only see you when you’re hurting,” he said finally.
His hand slid from your neck down to your jaw, tilting your face just enough that you had to meet his eyes. There was something dark in his gaze, like he’d already made up his mind.
“What do they know about your worth?” he murmured. And there it was. His thumb brushed beneath your eye again, wiping tears away before they could fall.
“My love, that’s why I don’t want anyone else laying their eyes on you,” he said. “They don’t deserve to.”
The room felt tighter when he said it.
You should have pulled back, and you knew that, but instead, you leaned into his hand.
His grip firmed on you, not enough to stop you, but just enough to be sure.
“Look at me,” He whispered.
You did.
His expression softened, as if he saw something fragile within you. He leaned in slowly, leaving you time that you didn’t bother to use. You had made your choices a long time ago.
When his lips touched yours, it was so gentle. And for a moment, you remembered what it felt like in the beginning; the way falling in love with him was like a sudden shot of light in the dark.
You clung to that feeling, even as his hand slid to the back of your head, bringing you two closer.
Even as the room faded around the both of you.
Even as you realized how easy it was to let him decide where you belong.