Page 158 of This Life of Mine

I’ve seen people who grew up with far less and break far more easily.

Survival wasn’t a finish line—it was maintenance. You wake up, you function, you do what needs to be done, even when your body and mind are exhausted from carrying too much for too long.

And still—somehow—she didn’t turn inward. She didn’t calcify.

Instead, she built. She learned. She showed up. She loved people who didn’t always deserve it. She found ways to create beauty—a business and community—out of a life that gave her very little softness in return.

That’s the part that floors me.

She’s suffered abuse, violence, loss, instability, grief layered on grief—and she didn’t let it turn her into someone small. She didn’t let it steal her curiosity, her generosity, her ability to care deeply.

Most people carry trauma like a woundtheykeep reopening.

Lina carries it like scar tissue—stronger where it healed, flexible enough to keep moving, proof of damage without being defined by it.

She doesn’t dramatize her past. She doesn’t use it as currency. She doesn’t ask for pity.

She just…keeps going.

A slow, pressure settles in my chest, with no connection to instinct or training. It’s resounding respect and admiration. Something intensely close to awe. She’s not untouched by darkness. She’sbuiltby it.

And that kind of person doesn’t need saving.

She needs someone willing to walk beside her and keep pace. Someone who understands that strength like hers doesn’t come from fearlessness—but from the refusal to quit.

The fact that she’s still capable of love—still capable of choosing me—makes me want her more. It makes me determined to protect her, honor her, and never be another man who underestimates the strength it took for her to become who she is.

Whatever comes next—enemies, fallout, complications—I know one thing with absolute fucking clarity. I will not be the one who fails her. Truth and honesty from here on out. No authority. No control. Just…me.

I didn’t answer EJ to manipulate anything.

I responded respectfully. Like a functioning adult. Which, frankly, feels like it shouldn’t be remarkable—but here we are.

If she’d been angry, I would’ve understood. I would’ve accepted it. Logged it under consequences of poor decisions and moved on.

But she wasn’t.

Then there was the Wingstop confession.

I expected concern. Maybe suspicion. Possibly questions about my sanity.

Instead, she burst into laughter.

Not a polite laugh. Not a careful one. Full-on, can’t-catch-her-breath laughter. She wanted details. Why Wingstop? Whyrunning? Why I thought avoiding her friends-with-benefits by sprinting through the town like a man being chased by demons was a reasonable solution.

When I told her I went for a run because I absolutely did not want to know what was going to happen next, she laughed even harder.

She did point out—fairly—that she should probably be angry about how intrusive I’ve been.

Then she shrugged and said, “But honestly? Wingstop? Hilarious!”

And somehow, the conversation pivoted—from my questionable coping mechanisms to her dating history since I’ve been here.

Which is objectively funnier now that she knows I listened to most of them in real time.

Lina begins by retelling those horror stories, embellishing the worst parts, and I find myself filling in details I absolutely hate remembering.

“The one who talked nonstop about himself—“ she said..