Page 99 of Tilly in Technicolor
I blow out a breath and shove my hand through my hair. “Communicating, I mean. I think I’m kind of bad at it. And I want to get better. With you. If you want to. It’s okay if you don’t. But I wanted to, er, well, I guess, communicate this to you. That I want to be a better, uh, communicator. So… yeah.”
Tilly is silent for a moment, arms wrapped around herself as she stares at me. “Word vomit is generallymything,” she says at last, giving me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I shake my head, feeling words get clogged in my throat again. I take a deep breath, trying to untangle them.
“I think we communicate differently,” I say. “And I want to learn your language. I want us to figure out how to talk to each other in the best ways possible. Because if you’re moving to Paris, I want to understand you, and for you to understand me. I don’t want to lose you.”
Tilly’s lips part. “You don’t want to lose me?” she echoes.
I clench my jaw in frustration. Why am I unable to make this clear? I’m getting all jumbled. I’m doing this wrong. I…
“Tilly,” I say, taking a step toward her and placing my hands on her cheeks. Her eyes are wide. Vulnerable. I love her so much it seems impossible. “I didn’t want to break up when we talked earlier. I don’t want to break up now. I don’t want to break up ever. Iloveyou. I’m comfortable with you in a way I never even hoped to experience with another person. Being around you—seeing the way you shine—is like discovering a new color of the rainbow every single day.”
Tilly is properly crying now, and she sucks in a breath. “Why didn’t you say any of this before?”
I blink up at the ceiling and laugh bitterly. “Believe me, if it were that easy for me, I would have. I’m slow to process. When plans change, even small ones, my body and mind lock up. I’m flooded with so many sensations, I can’t discern what theyall mean. It’s hard to put words to what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking—even right now. And it’s scary to say that out loud because all my life people have told me I say the wrong thing.”
My gaze flicks back to Tilly and I feel…
I feel safe.
I keep going. “My silence in that moment is the biggest regret of my life. Because I should have taken it to celebrate you. To appreciate you. To tell you no matter where you live, I’ll love you. You are noise and charisma and joy and that’s what I should have been for you.”
“Ollie,” Tilly says, reaching out for me, her hands landing gently on the nape of my neck. “I don’t need you to be anything but you.”
I start to say something more, but she places her hands on my lips, silencing me. “And this is something you’ve told me. You told me change is hard for you to adjust to. That you need a little time. I always thought of it in the sense of travel, and that was dumb.”
“It’s not dumb,” I whisper. “We’re just learning.”
Tilly’s smile is real now.
“I’m very sensitive,” she blurts out. “Like, extremely sensitive. And I tend to react before I think. I can misread pretty much anything. A look. Silence. Something simple someone says. And I turn it into rejection. Like I’m a failure on a fundamental level. And I think some awful voice in the back of my head has lied to me all my life and told me I deserve that rejection—that hurt—because I’m a lot to deal with. And I try to shut that voice up, I really do, but sometimes it talks on a loudspeaker, and I start to believe it. Find moments for it to be true.”
“You should speak with a therapist,” I say, a small bubble of excitement growing in my chest that I can help her with this.
Tilly blinks, mouth dangling open, then bursts out laughing. She wraps her arms around me, hugging me close.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
She laughs harder, her whole body shaking. “Because, generally speaking, telling someone they need psychiatric treatment can come across a bit offensive.”
“Why?” I ask again, pulling back to look down at her.
Tilly’s eyebrows furrow, and she nibbles on her lip. “I… I actually don’t know. It’s not like people get offended when you say, ‘Oh, you should get a checkup,’ or whatever with your regular doctor. Regardless,” she says, waving away the left turn in the conversation. “I think you’re right. A therapist would probably be good for me.”
I reach out and grab Tilly’s hands, lacing our fingers together in that strong, secure way I know she likes.
“So, you’re okay with the fact that I won’t be in London?” she eventually says, raising our clasped hands to rub her lips across my knuckles.
I clear my throat, unhooking my thumb to lift her chin so she’s looking at me. “You could tell me you’re moving to Brazil. Or back to Cleveland. Or some moldy cave in a forest, and I’d love you all the same. You’ll always be the place that feels most like home.”
Tilly pushes up on her tiptoes, kissing me until I feel dizzy with it. And I kiss her back.
We eventually crawl into bed, talking and holding each other for hours, until we both start trading yawns.
“I don’t want to fall asleep,” Tilly whispers, eyelids heavy as she nestles closer to me. “I don’t want this moment to end.”
I wrap my arm around her and kiss the crown of her head.
