Page 37 of Love Letters from a Libra
The car suddenly felt too small and confined, so I grabbed the flowers and stepped out into the night air. The cool breeze hit my face like a wake-up call. This wasn’t like me. I didn’t do grand gestures. I didn’t show up unannounced. I planned with calculated control, but that version of me was exactly who needed to stay in the car right now.
For a moment, I considered leaving the flowers on her porch and texting her that they were there, the coward’s compromise, but I spent too much of my life finding the middle ground between intimacy and isolation.
Too much time spent calculating the precise distance, allowing me to care without being vulnerable. Too many relationships where I was physically present but emotionally halfway out the door.
I knocked. Footsteps approached from the other side. Zanaa paused, checking the peephole. I imagined her surprise seeing me there, the debate she was having about whether to open the door. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. Part of me almost hoped she wouldn’t so I could retreat to the safety of my car.
But then came the sound of the chain sliding and the lock turning as the door opened, and there she was, Zanaa in gray sweatpants and a head wrap, her face carefully composed, but her eyes alive with questions that I was finally ready to answer.
“Jules,” she said. My name was neither a question nor a welcome, just a statement of fact.
“I know it’s late. Can we talk?” I asked.
Zanaa didn’t smile, but she didn’t close the door either, just stepped aside, a silent invitation that felt more like a challenge than a welcome. I entered her apartment with the lilies awkward in my hand like some peace offering from another century.Tonight her home felt undeniably different with its plants, books, and crystals. The warmth that enveloped me the last time had been replaced by something more cautious, as if the apartment was watching me, waiting to see if I disappeared again.
“It’s late,” Zanaa said, closing the door behind me. It wasn’t accusatory, just factual.
“I know. I’m sorry. I needed to see you.” My words came out stiff and formal.
Zanaa crossed her arms, her head wrap framing her face in a way that made her eyes seem even more penetrating. I noticed she was wearing the moonstone ring as she gestured toward the couch.
“You can sit.”
I sat, perched on the edge like I might need to make a quick exit. The lilies rested on my knee. On the coffee table was a journal, a light, and an open pen resting across the page.
“These are for you. White lilies, the guy said were suitable for asking forgiveness.” I offered the flowers.
She didn’t smile, but her eyes softened. She took them and placed the flowers in an empty vase that happened to be sitting on the side table. There was no water yet, and they’d wilt without it. That problem felt symbolic of everything hanging between us right now.
“Thank you,” she said, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. The distance between us felt fast and necessary.
I blew out air, searching for the right words. Not the practiced ones I’d rehearsed in the car, but something true enough to bridge the new gap between us.
“I used to think space meant care. Like if I could just take care of myself quietly, I wouldn’t be a burden.”
Zanaa watched me, face neutral but eyes alert. The silence stretched between us, and I realized she wasn’t going to make this easy, and why should she?
“That text I sent, it was bullshit. Not a lie but not the whole truth either.” I shook my head, recognizing it was an inadequacy.
“Which was?” Zanaa tilted her head slightly.
“That I got scared of this. Of us. Of how easy it felt to be with you, which made no sense because nothing about relationships has ever been easy for me.” I gestured between us.
Zanaa uncrossed her arms, her posture softening. “You’re not a burden, Jules, but you disappeared, even if it was brief. You don’t get to vanish when things get intense, then come back when you decide it’s safe.” The hurt in her voice was controlled but unmistakable.
“I know. It’s a pattern, one I’m trying to break.” My admission sat heavy between us.
Her eyes never left my face, and I forced myself to maintain eye contact, not to look away like I usually would when I felt exposed.
“I used to date this woman named Candace. She was beautiful, a brilliant environmental lawyer, always in crisis.”
Jealousy flickered in Zanaa’s eyes at the mention of another woman.
I ran a hand down my face. “She needed everything all the time. There were two a.m. panic attacks, and I had to give constant emotional support. Every crisis was bigger than the last, and I gave because that’s what I thought love was: being someone’s rock, their stability.” Zanaa’s expression shifted not to pity, but to something more complex, understanding.
“She left, saying I was too stable. Told me that sometimes she forgot I was even here. Her words stung, even now. Told me she found someone more passionate, which I think just meant someone who hadn’t learned to hide their own needs yet.”
I shifted on the couch. “She wasn’t the first. Imani and Dawn were before her. They were different women with the same pattern. They arrived with their own energy but gradually transferred their weight onto my shoulders until I carried both of us.”
