“I’ve never been able to talk like this with a partner before, to speak in a way that’s raw, and have someone really understand and reciprocate.”
Timmy’s expression hardens for a moment, almost imperceptibly, before it softens again.
He leans in closer, swiping a stray lock of hair off my face. “Well, those people were all idiots. You’re so kind and sweet and you’ve been through so much,” he says, his voice deep and reassuring. “I can’t imagine not knowing everything about you. I’m here, Margaux, and I want to hear it all. You never have to hold back with me.”
It’s like a weight lifts off my shoulders. For the first time, I feel truly safe. I tell him more—about the nights when I wake up from nightmares screaming, drenched in sweat, the memories of the assault clawing at me, leaving me breathless. I tell him about how scared I am sometimes, how fragile I feel when those moments hit me. How I know I’ve made so much progress, but those setbacks have me reeling and it feels like I’m backsliding every now and then. And Timmy listens intently, nodding, squeezing my hand, his face a picture of compassion.
He starts sharing again, too, but his stories are different. Vague. “I’ve lost people, too,” he says. “And been hurt by others.” He glances away, as if the memory is too painful to hold eye contact over. “The ones who have passed… friends, family, people close to me. I keep little things to remember them by, like this quilt.” He gestures to an old, threadbare stitched blanket on the chair. “It’s falling apart and covered in stains that I can’t get out, but it means the world to me. It’s all I have left.”
I reach out to touch the quilt, feeling the worn fabric beneath myfingers, taking care not to knock one of the patchwork triangles that’s hanging by a thread next to an unknown mark that looks a bit like ketchup. “That’s beautiful,” I say softly, but something nags at the back of my mind. He’s mentioning friends and family, but not by name. “Who gave it to you?”
He hesitates, his eyes distant. “A friend. Someone you don’t know. It’s not important.” He smiles, but this time, for some reason, it feels more like a mask. “What matters is that I have it.”
The conversation shifts, and he talks about other trinkets he’s kept that he holds dear. A couple of rings another unnamed friend gave him when he helped her to move, a small foil baby shark balloon that he claims holds sentimental value as it starts to sag as the helium deflates out of it. He’s emotional about these objects, tears welling in his eyes as he talks about how important they are to him. But he leaves it at that, seemingly preferring not to go deeper.
Still, I don’t press. It’s enough that he’s sharing. He’s being vulnerable in his own way. He doesn’t need to tell me everything, and if he wants to, he will in his own time. We’re a safe space for each other now.
It’s so freeing, like I can finally truly breathe. That I have a partner to share in my joy, my pain, and my mess—our mess, now. I drown in the sweetness of his attention, in the idea that I’ve finally found someone who gets me. Someone who cares.
He makes me feel so safe.
He makes me feel so seen.
It’s the two things I’ve craved all my life.
When I’ve been abandoned by nearly everyone, he’s just what I need. Kind, attentive, a protector who also makes me laugh—and he’s cute. Every insecurity I have is something helovesabout me.
Every fucking thing.
When I was younger, I felt like I had a true love, a soulmate waiting in the wings, somewhere, somehow. I believed it was in my cards. That hope had faded over the years, like it was just a silly thing, a nice concept that doesn’t actually exist. But now I have Timmy.
And I have never ever felt such pure joy.
25
STARFISH... BUT NOT THE COOL KIND
Over the next few days, Timmy is always here—everywhere I go, every waking second, and then next to me when I sleep. He wants to be part of everything I do, every little errand or mundane task.
“I’ll come with you,” he says every time I suggest running out to the grocery store.
He insists on driving me to the post office rather than having me walk all that way, even though I love the exercise. I’ve never had someone want to accompany me oneveryerrand before. With others, they were always happy to let me go off by myself to tackle whatever tasks they felt were boring—now, it’s the exact opposite. And while it’s a little smothering at times, there’s something about it that makes me feel special—like I’m the center of Timmy’s universe.
Consciously, I know that it’s notnormalto have someone want to spend 24/7 with you. People need space, right? At least, that’s always what I’ve been told. But at the same time, it feels… really nice. Knowing I mean so much to someone that they want to be with me every second of the day. It’s flattering… almost intoxicating.
But sometimes, when I do manage to slip out on a solo errand, I feel this tiny spark of relief. I get onto the sidewalk, and crank mymusic on my headphones as loud as I can, and for a brief moment, I’m justmeagain, alone with my thoughts. Part of me wants to keep walking for hours… to run… the wind whipping through my hair, belting out the lyrics to songs he doesn’t like, or listening to one of my podcasts that he’d probably find boring. I let myself imagine it—just me, lost in my own world, free.
But then, that feeling fades. Because as soon as I picture him, waiting for me with that cheeky grin, I feel an odd sense of guilt for even wanting a sliver of time apart. I think of how cozy it is to sit beside him all day, curled up on the bed, his hand brushing against mine as he turns to me and whispers sweet things.
I’ve never been with someone who wanted this level of closeness, this much intimacy, day in and day out. Timmy talks about our future with such passion, weaving dreams of what our life will look like. “We’ll get a little house, just the two of us, and I’ll design everything. You can write all day in peace. We’ll have a beautiful garden with exotic plants, and we’ll grow our own vegetables. We’ll have a state-of-the-art grill, and even a little pizza oven beside our fire pit. Doesn’t that sound perfect?” His voice is soothing, painting a picture so vivid that I can almost see it—this future we’re building together.
He talks about his graphic design work with such enthusiasm, creativity pouring out of him, and he loves listening to me talk about my writing, encouraging me at every step. It’s like he’s always right there beside me, helping me envision this life we’re working towards.
It’s what I’ve always wanted. Someone who’s just as invested in our future as I am. Someone who’s as affectionate and loyal as I’ve always craved. So how could I say no?
But sometimes, it’s a little… much. Like when I go to the bathroom, and he just walks in. No knocking, no asking, he’s just there. “What?! I missed you!” he’ll say, as if it’s no big deal. I’ll be peeing or showering, and he’ll just wander in, like my personal space doesn’t exist. He’ll watch me shower, a cheeky gleam in his eyes, and it’s not uncommon for him to bundle me up in one of the fluffy lilac towels and hoist me over his shoulder, carrying me to the bed for more earth-shattering sex which will no doubt result in me needing yet another shower.
And when I pee, he yells ‘Starfish!’ And pretends he wants to pee while I am as well, aiming just in front of me into the bowl. One time I even let him do it, and he cackles as his pee sloshes from the bowl and splashes me on my leg. Gross!