The paisley wallpaper seemed faded when paired with the dim light, softly trickling from beneath the shade of the lamp in the corner. A soothing melody echoed in the background. Sometimes I could make out Parisian phrases, other times I couldn’t hear a thing.
I was laying there, somehow in an emotional daydream. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do, all that I wanted to do was feel. I wanted to feel every bit of him. I wanted to feel his skin, feel his heart beat, feel his hand gently drawing circles about my arm. I wanted to feel his mind. And I wanted him to feel me, too.
I looked up at him, eyes wide, begging him to see. I wanted him, in that moment, to see through my eyes past my mind and into my soul and cure all my aches and pains and brokenness and anxieties and frustrations and wants and hopes and dreams. I stared at him, bearing my existence, which no words seemed just to describe.
An honest, gentle, angelic warmth of a smile crept about his tendered face. All his lines seemed softened by the light, and I fell and rose with each inhale and exhale.
“I’m in love with you,” he said. I could feel my cheeks flush, and a flurry began in my stomach. I questioned, within a seconds worth of time, every bit of reason, every nook and cranny of my heart that had been hardened and blackened and blued. I trembled, I reeled, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the enchantment that after two weeks someone could love me.
But he did.
He said he did.
I muster all of my strength, and again, beckon him to search me. I feel fragile and lay my head down on his chest.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
We both laid there in silence, and I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was envisioning the future. Maybe he thought he just made a terrible mistake. Maybe he saw, two years down the road, a tired, haggard man who was angry, resistant, and exhausted from his game. Maybe he was just reeling in the moment. Maybe he was thinking how much he loved me. Maybe he was content.
“Promise you won’t let me go,” I said, breaking the silence.
He didn’t understand where it was coming from, I’m sure. He looked up at me, just as he always had done, and said,
“I promise, I won’t.”
I was afraid, even in that precious and pivotal moment, and I couldn’t figure out why. I had a feeling that things wouldn’t be easy, a hunch that the ride we were about to embark on would be a tough one. I was ready to be married, I was ready to be a wife, and I was ready for the work, compromise, and dedication that would come with that. I was afraid I’d want to escape or come up with some easy excuse as to why we weren’t working. “We’re just not right for each other.” “It’s me, not you.” “I just need time to figure out who I am.”
I was tired of excuses; I was tired of running away. I wanted him and I wanted a relationship and I wasn’t going to give up – and even if I should try, I’d want him to not let me. I’d want him to not give up, too.
