Page 48 of My Lovely Tragedy
Tobias seems to sense I need to justsay it,so he keeps his mouth shut, though the thin, tight line of his lips tells me he’s desperate to interrupt and tell me more lies.In an attempt to comfort.
But my skin is crawling with shame. With embarrassment and disgust. For myself and how I’ve treated him.
How I had no fuckingcontrol.
“It’s an excuse—I know it is. But I can’t really control it. It kinda just…” I fall off, picking at the threads in the blanket, unraveling them.
“It consumes you,” he finishes the thought for me. I glance up through my lashes for a second. His eyes are on my fingers.
“Yeah.” I swallow. He nods again. In understanding? Maybe.
But that seems too good to be true. Someone like him. Strong and put together. Immaculate.
It’s expected for some rockstar like me to have issues. In fact, the expectation of such was nearly planted right on my shoulders from the moment I first held a mic.
“But it’s just an excuse.”
“Who told you it’s an excuse?” His question throws me. I part my lips to give an answer, but what would I even say?
The world. My family. My friends.
Myself?
“How you feel, whether you are able to control it or not, is not an excuse. It simplyis,Brooklyn. So many people—unfortunately, a large part of the population—has this preconceived notion that depression is controllable. I suppose with medication, it is more manageable, but that does not mean you have any say over when it becomes too much and takes you down with it.
“It’s a dark, invisible wave that crashes over the shore whenever it feels like it. Without warning. Causing mass destruction. Do you think the world at large would expect you to be able to control a tsunami?”
I rear back at such an absurd question—at the fucking analogy he’s using. At, despite the absurdity, howrightit is.
“Comparing depression to a tsunami is really fucking stupid,” I reply, shoulders hunched, back curved. Defensive.Exposed.
“Is it?” His face is a mask. Stoic and unreadable, except in those eyes—eyes he gives me so easily. And all I see is truth and understanding—or maybe I’m just visualizing what I’ve always wished to see in another person that’sseen me.All of me.
“Yes,” I answer petulantly.
He nods. “You may think that, or you may simply be saying that because you are stubborn and refuse to accept the fact that you are in pain and it’s okay to be in pain. It is okay to lean on me because I wish for you to do so.”
“But why?” I blurt, voice rising as tears and hysteria bubble up in my chest. “Why the fuck would you want that? To care for a person with an illness that makes them so utterly fucking useless, they piss and shit themselves?” The sting of admittance finally breaks the dam, and tears run hot and fast down my cheeks, into my beard, making my dry skin itch.
Tobias and I both know I did not defecate myself—this time. But the shameful truth that ithashappened now lies bare in the space between us.
And Tobias watches it all with sharp, piercing eyes. Warm, yet strangely cold and… I look away, down at my hands. At my covered legs. Anywhere and nowhere. Wanting to disappear but stay right where I am.
The silence stretches. The desire for an answer, to know why, burns. Coils in my gut.
My fingers flex into my palms.
“Because taking care of you has been a highlight of my life. I have enjoyed your presence here in my home. Simply having you around, comatose or otherwise, brings me immense joy. And having you lean on me,needing meto care for you, is all I have ever wanted.” His small intake of breath is audible in the room. “Although, my intentions are notentirelyselfish.”
I blink once. Twice. My jaw hangs slightly ajar.
He thinksthosereasons are selfish?
Like how I’m feeling right now isn’t? Being cared for since my blurriest memories of childhood makes me selfish. Makes me not care. Makes me want to fall back into the trenches simply because I know someone—Tobias—is right there waiting for me. Taking care of it all.
I’d simply be a passerby trapped in my own body, a vessel to his whims and desires. And it would all beokay.
But I don’t say any of that. I can’t—and Tobias knows that—but I think, just maybe, he sees it in my eyes all the same.
