Page 38 of Love Letters from a Libra
“And you let them?” Zanaa asked, not an accusation but an observation.
I nodded. “I did because that’s what I knew how to do—be the strong one, the steady one, the one who never faltered, needed, or asked.”
Zanaa twisted the moonstone on her finger, twisting it around and around. “So you learned to run before they could lean too hard.”
“Exactly. I measured love in retreats instead of steps forward, calculating the exact distance that would keep me involved but not vulnerable.” I paused, watching her face, but she remained still, waiting.
“Then you happened. You who doesn’t lean. Who stands complete in your own power. Who asked questions, not to transfer emotional weight but to genuinely know,” I continued.
Zanaa sucked her lips. “That scared you?”
“Terrified me, because what do I offer not serving as someone’s rock?”
The silence between us felt different now, less like a barrier and more like a shared space where truth could exist and be adorned. Outside, a siren wailed briefly then faded. Inside, the only sound was our breathing.
“I kept myself helpful, needed, but always a little unreachable. I don’t wanna do that with you, but I don’t know how to stop,” I admitted.
Zanaa uncurled her legs and shifted slightly closer to me on the couch, not touching but reducing the distance she had established when we sat down.
“So instead of talking to me about this, you just went quiet? I understand where you’re coming from, but it’s not fair to me. My love language is different. I need stability in a relationship. I’m not down for hit it and split it behavior.” Her voice carried no judgment, just a request for understanding.
“Classic avoidance. Amir calls me out on this all the time. My sister has been telling me for years that I disappear when things get real. I just never had a good enough reason to stop until now.” I shook my head.
Something changed in her expression at that.
“I can’t promise I won’t mess up again. This is decades in the making, but I promise I’ll try. I want to try with you if you still want that.” I reached out, taking her hand.
Zanaa’s eyes moved from my face to my hand and back again when she spoke. Her voice was quiet but clear.
“I appreciate you coming here explaining. Trust isn’t rebuilt in one conversation, even a good one.”
I nodded, accepting the truth of her words. “I know.”
“I need consistency, not perfection, but presence even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard,” she continued.
“That’s fair. More than fair.” I removed my hand from hers, respecting the boundary she’d established.
I didn’t beg or overexplain. There had been enough of that already, and more words wouldn’t bridge the gap my actions created. Instead, I looked at her directly, allowing her to see whatever she found in my eyes, whether that was hope, fear, or the person I was trying to be rather than the one the pattern had made me.
“The door is open if you still want to walk through it,” I said.
Zanaa nodded, neither accepting nor rejecting, just acknowledging. “We’ll see.”
I cleared my throat. “There’s this thing that happens at Franklin Park near the conservatory. It’s a communitystargazing night. My aunt used to take me and Amir when we were kids.”
Zanaa’s eyebrows lifted slightly, interest flickering across her face. This was her territory, stars’ cosmic connections.
“After my mother died, Aunt Nubi stepped in. She didn’t have much. She worked two jobs, lived in a two-bedroom home with a basement where she made a room for me. However, she did have this old telescope that belonged to her father,” I explained.
The memories surfaced with clarity: Aunt Nubi in her warm denim jacket, Amir bundled in a too-big sweater, and me, pretending I wasn’t cold because thirteen-year-old boys didn’t admit to feeling anything as mundane as temperature.
“She’d pack thermoses of hot chocolate, these scratchy old blankets, and the telescope that weighed almost as much as Amir did. At the park, this astronomy club would set up its equipment. It was the one place I ever felt like love could stretch without snapping.” I glanced up to find Zanaa watching me intently, something new in her expression: recognition. The kind that came from seeing a piece of yourself reflected in someone else’s story.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice gentle in a way that invited rather than demanded.
I searched for the right words to convey what I was trying to say.
“Out there, under those stars, problems seemed smaller and more manageable. My mother was still gone, and Aunt Nubi was still struggling to raise two kids who weren’t hers. I was trying to be the man of the house at thirteen, but when I looked up at all those stars, the patterns that we watched over countless human struggles, it put things into perspective.”
