And yet, the gnawing doubt creeps in, curling at the edges of my joy. His rage still lingers in my memory, a shadow that refuses to leave. I want to stay in this love bubble forever, but I know deep down that love isn’t supposed to feel like a rollercoaster of exhilaration and fear.
I clutch onto the good moments, hoping they’ll be enough to drown out the bad. But in the quiet spaces between, the anxiety claws at me. And I wonder how long I can live like this—teetering on the edge between euphoria and disaster, praying the bubble doesn’t burst.
The next day, I see something as I’m scrolling through my phone that stops me in my tracks—a meme that reads:
‘Your nervous system will naturally feel calm around people with pure intentions and authentic energy - trust it.’
I don’t feel calm around Timmy. I feel constantly exhilarated and on edge.
I used to think of it as a giddy kind of excitement, but now I’m beginning to wonder if the constant butterflies mean something else, that my body is trying to tell me something.
My anxiety is peaking, but he makes us breakfast, distracting me, and I push the thoughts down.
There’s an ANZAC ceremony at the military cemetery, and I really want to go. Timmy agrees to go with me, and we take an Uber up the winding mountain road. The military ceremony to commemorate the New Zealand and Australian soldiers killed in Gallipoli is somber and reflective, and Timmy stands calmly, holding my hand and taking it all in.
It’s a rare moment to see Timmy this serene and grounded, behaving appropriately in a formal situation. For once, I have no concerns about how he’s going to act or what he’s going to say. I can tell he gets the memo that this isn’t a place to joke around, to stand out, to draw attention, to make a spectacle. We’re here to honor the dead, the fallen, and he’s taking it seriously.
“That was so moving,” he says after the ceremony, wiping a tear from his face. “I used to really want to be in the military, but I wasn’t allowed in because of my back injury. I felt like I was letting my dad down. So I’m so glad my nieces and nephews are following in his footsteps.”
I’d never really thought about it, how it must be to be the child of a respected veteran, and not choose the same career, especially as a male. I get the sense he feels deficient in some way, that he felt the weight of others’ aspirations for him to do it, too. That’s a lot of pressure, I imagine.
In the afternoon, we visit a bar where one of my friends from back on the East Coast is visiting to deliver a presentation on agave-based spirits. Timmy doesn’t drink the entire time, and gives me his tasting samples. He’s social, but appropriately so, and just relaxes and enjoys learning about the different forms of spirits. He asks questions and chats with the people around us.
In the bathroom, the walls are lined with blackboard paint and chalk is provided. He gets me to go into a stall after he vacates it. He’s written ‘Timmy <3 Margaux. She said yes!’
My heart flutters when I read it. This man is helping me to experience pure joy, pure love for the first time. I grab my own piece of chalk and add ‘I did <3 :)’. He smiles when I show him, and pulls me to him for a passionate kiss.
I amlivingwith this man. Truly living. The way I’ve always read about, but never thought would be possible for me.
What a talented, creative individual. And he loves my cat, too. There’s literally nothing more I could ask from this man. I never want this love bubble to burst.
76
THE MASK BEGINS TO FALL (AGAIN)
After a couple of weeks, something changes.
At first, I try to ignore the shift. I tell myself that everyone has off days, moments where they just need to recharge. But this feels different. Something in Timmy has switched off, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. One moment, we’re making plans for hikes, art exhibits, and lazy afternoons at the beach, and the next, it’s as if a curtain has fallen between us and the outside world.
“I don’t feel like doing that today,” he mutters when I suggest going out for coffee, his voice flat, eyes glazed as he flips through movie options on the TV.
“Maybe next week,” he mumbles when I bring up a trail we’d been excited about for weeks.
It’s not just that he doesn’t want to go—it’s the sudden apathy, the way every idea seems like too much effort now. Every plan I float fizzles out before it even has a chance to form. There’s always a reason, a vague excuse:
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“I think I might be coming down with something.”
“Matty’s expecting us to hang out later.”
“I have a sore tummy.”
“I had a nightmare.”
And so we stay, trapped inside Matty’s apartment like caged animals.
I start to feel the walls closing in. “I feel trapped in here,” I blurt out one day. I try to keep my voice steady, but the words wobble on the edge of frustration. I don’t mean for them to sound accusatory, but I can’t hold it back anymore.