Page 198 of This Life of Mine

I warned him at first. Even tried to contain myself.

I apologized a lot.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t withdraw. He treated all of it like part of the whole, not something to tolerate.

And then there was the bakery.

That place was built from stubbornness and exhaustion and hope. Mine.

I never asked him to help. Never expected him to want to. But one day he was there—flour on his hands, showing up early, learning without ego.

That’s when it clicked.

Love doesn’t take space. It honors it.

Eventually, I stopped reacting and started choosing. I stopped guarding every inch of my life and let him share it—without losing myself in the process.

Seven months ago, I was free but rigid. Now I’m free and open.

When I look at Alex—steady, patient, choosing me without pressure—I know this isn’t something I need to protect myself from.

It’s something I get to live.

There was another part of it I didn’t understand.

I couldn’t relax.

Sitting still for too long made my skin crawl. Rest felt dangerous. Like I was waiting to be caught doing something wrong.

For years, stillness had been something I was punished for—laziness mistaken for defiance, quiet mistaken for disobedience. So I learned to stay busy. To always be doingsomething. Cleaning. Fixing. Proving I was useful.

When I lived alone, I was free to rest whenever I wanted to. Sit on the couch. Do nothing. Breathe.

Living with Alex disrupted that in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

It wasn’t because Alex did anything wrong. It was his presence.

For some reason his presence in my space was enough to set my nervous system on edge. Another person in my space meant my body stayed alert, waiting. Even in silence. Even in safety. I felt overstimulated without knowing why, exhausted by the effort of staying “on.”

It confused me and it scared me.

I talked about it in therapy. Learned to name it. Learned that my body was reacting to old rules that no longer applied. That safety sometimes feels unfamiliar before it feels real.

It took time. Practice. Patience—from both of us.

Over time, I learned how to sit still again. Because rest no longer felt like something I had to earn.

And here we are, at the shop living our new normal—making dough while Alex helps out front with coffee orders.

My hands move through dough on autopilot when the nausea hits again.

It’s been hovering all day—started yesterday, actually—but I brushed it off. Stress. Lack of sleep. Too much coffee. All the usual excuses I’ve learned to live with.

This is different. This is heavy. Sudden. Unrelenting.

My stomach rolls hard enough that I have to grab the counter. The smell of yeast and flour turns sour in my nose, and my mouth fills with that unmistakable warning.

Oh no.