It isn’t new or surprising, but it feels heavier now. Earned. Placed with intention.
Because I did feel like poison growing up. Like there was something wrong with me that I couldn’t shake, and that my differences were why I was treated at arm’s length—nobody ever pulling me in with the same warmth the ‘natural’ family members were afforded.
The redheaded stepchild.
The black sheep.
The pariah.
The ‘different’ one’.
I frown. “But why poison?”
“You’ve been through so much, Ivy. And you seem so innocent… but you have a darkness within you—it’s subtle, but it’s there and it’s powerful. Don’t ever underestimate that.”
My breath stutters, and something inside me gives way completely. The tears come without force. Without buildup. They just arrive. Quiet. Steady.
Because that is what I’ve felt at my core. The fear that—at the very root of all that I am—there’s something insidious running through my veins. And that I can’t help but transfer it to everything I touch.
And nobody has ever come close to seeing that.
I haven’t even told him the whole story. And yet somehow he knows.
This is too much.
But I don’t pull away. Instead, I lean into him fully.
His arm comes around me immediately. His hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers settling there, holding me in place without pressure. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
And I believe him. Not just because it sounds good and I want to pretend he means what he says. Completely.
I never want to go back inside, resume normal life. Because leaving would mean interrupting this. Breaking it. And I don’t want that.
The words keep coming after that. I don’t filter them. I don’t measure them. They move from somewhere deeper, surfacing without resistance.
And he listens. Every time.
No interruption. No redirection. No need to fix or reshape anything.
Holds me.
“You know, I feel like I know you pretty well, Ivy—and you don’t seem very difficult to me,” he says, tracing a thumb around the curve between my thumb and index finger. “You actually seem… the opposite.”
Maybe he’s right. Growing up, I did my best to make my parents proud, even though that was near-impossible with my mother’s constant irrational demands. Getting the best grades, participating in all the activities, smiling through my tears when she would tip the contents of my drawers upside down in my room and yell at me to put everything in order.
As a teenager into my early twenties, I took pride in being the laidback one when it came to guys—the go-with-the-flow one—even when what they wanted me to do wasn’t good for me.
And now, as an adult—in corporate roles, doing what my bosses asked even when they went against what I stood for. In my own business, now, placating my clients even when their demands are outrageous.
Rarely being outspoken, putting my foot down. Sayingno—I want this. I’m going to do what’s right for me.
On the few occasions I did try, being stomped down so viciously I would never forget what they deemed to be my place.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve tried to fit in… to be unobtrusive and compliant and easy… but my brain doesn’t work the same way other people’s do.”
“How so?” His hand stills, squeezing mine gently, encouraging me to go on.
“I’ve just always seen the world a bit differently than most people—at least, that’s how it feels. I’ve always felt like I’m an outsider, on the outskirts looking in. My brain doesn’t filter information the same way. So despite trying to, I’ve never been able to meet anyone’s expectations.” I pause. “I misread things, and so even though I’m trying to do what people want, I end up getting it wrong.” I bite my lip. It was never about effort or intent, it was miscalculation. Not understanding what everyone else seems to.