My heart in tatters, I hit dial on my phone, as if I need her to ignore my call and give me the agonizing confirmation that she’s talking about me. Of course she’s talking about me.

But she does answer. And it throws me. “Hey,” she says quietly.

My mouth is working before my brain. “Where are you?” Please don’t lie to me. But her hand goes straight to her hair and the frantic, unconscious twiddling begins.

“I’m at home.”

I’m crushed. Fucking crushed. “Okay,” I murmur, hanging up before I say something stupid. Why is she doing this? It’s even fucking harder to understand now. She can’t give herself to me like that, make me feel like that, and deny me the chance to ever have her again. It doesn’t work like that.

My head spins as I watch her on the bench, sitting quietly, wondering what on earth is going on in her head. She needs to tell me. Maybe then I can reassure her. Or continue lying to her.

I cringe that thought the fuck away, focusing on the here and now, and she stands. Turns. Our eyes collide, and the second they do, I know beyond anything I’ve known before that this is it. She is it. Whatever I’ve been waiting for to redeem me, to rebuild me, to cure me, is standing before me, her eyes welling, her entire being yelling that she wants me. I am smitten, and whatever she’s set alight inside me can only burn if she preserves it. And that means I need her. And to need her is to keep her forever, and to keep her forever means I have to start being honest about who I am and what I have done. It’s a terrifying prospect. More terrifying because the chances of her running for the hills when she finds out everything there is to know is more likely than her accepting me. All thirty-seven years of me.

I need to make her need me. Make it impossible for her to ever walk away from me.

If only it were that simple.

After an age of us staring at each other, she breaks down, and my dead heart cracks. She feels hopeless. Overwhelmed by this crazy connection. I should take comfort in her inability to shield herself in this moment, to keep her vulnerability and conflict hidden, and instead wield her determination. But I don’t. I just feel like a first-class wanker for reducing her to despairing tears.

I move in and take her in my arms, holding her tightly and relaxing, feeling untold comfort in her embracing me, burying her face in my neck, her arms clinging to me firmly.

I let her be, give her time to let it all out. It’s all I can do in this moment. That and hope. Hope with everything I have that this isn’t a goodbye embrace. Because it’s amazing. Having her in my arms is amazing. Comforting her when she’s sad. Holding her when she needs to be held. Purpose. I reach up and massage the back of her head, sighing deeply.