Page 98 of Seven Minutes
And slowly, painfully, beautifully, I started to believe it again: that he didn’t want to run.
That he wasn’t waiting for an excuse to disappear.
That I stopped expecting the other shoe to drop.
But trust wasn’t just about believing him. It was about believing thatIstill mattered enough to keep him anchored. And lying there with his hand on my hip, his breath brushing my spine, I wanted to believe it so badly it almost hurt.
I shifted the slightest bit, testing him. His fingers tightened—just barely, half-asleep—but enough to say,Don’t go.Enough to sayI’m here.Enough to make me close my eyes and breathe him in, letting hope take up one more inch of space inside me.
Even if I was terrified of what would happen when morning pulled us both back into the real world.
Physical therapy becameour shared ritual. I did the stretches; he hovered like a personal-trainer-slash-overqualified-cheerleader, with his hands brushing my waist to steady me, fingers sliding under my shirt to check a muscle, or lips ghosting across my temple when I got something right.
It was a lot. A good lot. A terrifying lot.
Because Adrian had always been affectionate in bursts—rare, meteor-shower moments. Not like this. Not constant, quiet, casual.
He’d reach for my hand when we walked into the building. Kiss my shoulder while I refill my water bottle. Smooth a hand over my thigh in the car to confirm I existed.
And I responded, of course I did. My body leaned into him as ifit had been waiting years for permission. But some small, bruised part of me kept waiting. Kept whispering:What happens when the novelty wears off? When he feels fixed? When life gets busy again?
I didn’t have answers, so instead I focused on my exercises—slow, controlled, grounding movements steeped in repetition and familiarity. But each day, I could feel myself slipping further into him.
Adrian kept his promise about therapy, too.
He didn’t just go; heengaged. He came home a little wrung out, but lighter. Sometimes talkative, sometimes quiet, but always present.
After two weeks of sessions, he walked in, tossed his keys aside, and kissed me with a hunger that said he’d missed me all day. I melted into it, into him, into the heat of his mouth?—
Then he pulled back just enough to breathe against my lips. “My therapist asked what I’m afraid of losing.”
I swallowed, terrified of the truth. “And what did you say?”
“You.”
A simple answer. A landmine of one. I felt it everywhere.
“Not just… losing you,” he added, quieter. “Losing us. The way we were when I wasn’t…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “When I wasn’t screwing it up.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, absorbing his words.
“You’re the only place I’ve ever felt like I could just… be,” he said. “No fixing. No proving. Just—” The sound of his swallow was audible. “Just yours.”
God, I wanted to fall into that. Into him. Into the version of us he was reaching for as if it was still right there, waiting.
We’d traveled miles from that old, resentful silence that almost broke us. But the memory still lingered. The nights that stretched too long. The way I’d learned to shrink my needs so they wouldn’t feel like pressure. The version of him that loved me and still let me feel alone.
Love had never been the problem. That was the part that scared me.
I believed him. I did. I believed every word that came out of his mouth. But belief wasn’t the same as trust. We were still repairing that in precious measured steps.
“I want that too,” I said softly.
Two weeks into this fragile,almost-normal, we were on the couch with my leg elevated, Adrian’s head resting on my shoulder while he read but mostly traced lazy circles on my forearm.
Out of nowhere, he asked, “When are you going back to work?”
My stomach clenched.
