Page 64 of Eternal

My mind screams at me to pull away, to shield myself from whatever he’s pulling out of me, but something stops me. His words keep turning in my stupid brain, and as if all logic and cautiousness left my body, I don’t know how to ignore the need to do something.

I want to reach out, to say something that’ll stop the bleeding in his heart, the guilt I know all too well, but I can’t .

I look at him then, really look at him. And for just a second, I let myself want . Want to stay here. Want to heal . Want to be something more than this cold, fractured thing that beats in emptiness.

Maybe then, I’ll be able to help.

But then, just as quickly as it came, the moment slips away. I force myself to swallow, pulling back before I can feel the heaviness of what that desire means. I can’t want him. Not like that.

But he doesn’t have to know that, he’s still looking at me, waiting, and at that moment, all I can do is stare back. Wanting him to want me, the real me, is the worst thing I should do, and then, before I can stop myself, I say it. “If you had my name... would you call me by it?”

Damir doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me and smiles, and I wonder if he even understands the depth of what I’m asking. It’s not just about this name I hide. It’s about discovering everything that resulted from the moment I had it.

The love, the loss, the pain, the abuse.

Would he still call me by my name? Or would he be disgusted seeing the scars, knowing the addiction I went through, the abuse that broke my soul from the inside?

But then, his lips hover over mine, just inches away, and everything inside me tightens, my chest is burning, slowly.

He’s so close I can feel the delicate brush of his breath against my skin, and it’s fucking agonizing.

I want to break that distance. I want to breathe him in until everything falls away.

I want to kiss him, drown in him, until nothing is left but the two of us.

“If you want me to,” he murmurs, his voice so quiet, it almost feels like a secret only I am destined to hear. His thumb brushes against my hand, and my eyes follow the dilation of his irises, this small and stupid involuntary reaction. “Do you, partner ?”

Back off, Azra. Back. Off.

I tell myself that, and slowly, I put space between us. The distance grows, he closes his eyes for a second, mirroring my movement, the closest we’ve felt and yet somehow the farthest apart we’ve been.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, staring back at the stars. “My name... it’s my whole identity. And I don’t know if I can trust it anymore.”

I feel his hand tighten around mine, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s go home, okay? We’ll talk there. I hate how your hands are always so cold I wish I could keep them warm.”

He gets up and like a routine he cleans the bench and pull me closer to take the road again.

Home .

He wants us to go home. Like it’s ours, like it’s a warm and beautiful place. He doesn’t see the journal like I see it, the irises on the table like I do, or the blanket like I feel it, so he thinks it’s home. The funny thing is that when he’s there, it does feel like home .

In a few minutes we’re back at my apartment, sitting in front of my TV. Songs are playing in the back. I’m hearing them, the one turning on again and again was putting a whole new atmosphere in here.

All I Need by Radiohead.

Fuck… it does feel home to have him here.

Damir is touching my hair again, and I’m closing my eyes letting myself relax under his touch.

“Can you stop moaning just because I’m playing with your hair?” He asks tugging on the strands.

I open my eyes and smile as I see his face upside down, head title back.

He’s really beautiful. “Don’t you like hearing me moaning under your touch?”

He laughs and leans down, his chin brushing my eyelashes and when his mouth closes on the top of my nose I can’t help but close my eyes again.

It's so delicate, like I almost imagined the way his lips felt.

“You’re too dressed for me to be loving hearing those sounds come out of your mouth as I touch you.”

“Perv.”

He laughs and pulls me back up from the ground to the sofa. “Alright, now why is the same song repeating itself since we came back?”

I shrug and get up. “I do whatever I want in my house. That includes me being obsessed with a song and repeating it over and over again until I can’t do it anymore.”

I walk toward the kitchen, preparing two cups of tea for him and me.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making dessert,” I say, dropping a handful of loose tea leaves into the pot.

He shifts on the sofa, watching. “That’s dessert?”

I glance at him, deadpan. “Yes. It’s called emotional sustenance. I’m making you one too.”

I toss in fresh mint, a little cardamom, and way too much sugar, just the way I like it, the scent starts to rise, and I feel a strange sense of comfort running through me.

He raises an eyebrow, trying to decide if I’m actually serious. “A highly advanced dessert plan, just for me?”

“Yep,” I say, turning the heat down to let it simmer. “Step one: tea. Step two: the same sad song on loop until I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He stares.

I smile, pouring the tea into two glass mugs. “You need to try this.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I honestly don’t know what I walked into.”

“Domestic bliss,” I say, lifting a mug like it’s something holy and sacred. “Obviously.”

He grins from the sofa and watches me the whole way back. I sat back and handed him one. The glass is warm between our fingers for a second before he takes it.

He looks at it, then at me. “This better be heavenly.”

“No threats in this household or I’ll pour it down on you,” I say, curling up beside him with my own cup.

He takes a sip. Pauses. Blinks. “…Okay. That’s actually amazing.”

I smirk. “Told you.”

He takes another sip, slower this time. “So, what song are we looping?”

“ All I need by Radiohead. ”

He nods, takes the tea slowly before putting it down on the table and just listens to the song going over and over again, but then he looks up at me and smiles. “I have a question.”

Here we go again.

“Do tell?”

His eyes scan me as I try to make the drink colder, breathing on it. “Why irises?”

Because I never had the chance to see them grow back again.

“They were my mom’s favorite flowers.”

His hand finds my arm, and crawls up until it sets around my nape, his fingers caressing the skin there and I look back at him.

“Why do you sound sad saying that? You didn’t have a good relationship with her?”

I hate how my thoughts are already showing me my life with her. Memories with a blurry face, a blurry voice and a blurrier happiness.

“She loved me, I think. But love isn’t always kind, right?”

His brows furrow like he is confused on the meaning behind it, or maybe he just can’t understand, maybe he’s really just lost .

“Thinking that she loved you isn’t enough, partner .”

Isn’t it? I used to believe that if I told myself something enough times, it would become true.

My eyes close, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself be still. Someone is here, someone who isn’t demanding or judging. He’s just here . His hand moves against my skin, slow, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. I don’t know if he realizes what he’s doing, but I do. And I let him.

I swallow, my throat feels tight. Say it, Azra.

“When I was seven,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, “I learned that love doesn’t always feel warm like your hand does right now.”

His fingers still for half a second before continuing, tracing along my wrist, my palm. I stare at the ceiling, the words pressing against my ribs like they might break me open.

“Sometimes, it can feel like a hard slap on your cheek. Other times, it’s slamming doors and screams. It can sound like shattered glass on the floor, like a warning that she wasn’t my mother that day and I should be careful.” I take a breath. “But I know she still loved me.”

I hope she did.

The hand against mine never pulls away, never hesitate. It’s still here, warm and solid, like an anchor keeping me from drifting away in a vast ocean of sorrows and regrets. A deep and scary one.

He’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “How do you know she loved you, then?”

“Because she was my mother .” The lie slips out like an instinct from my lips, like something I’ve held onto so tightly it’s fused to my bones. It was all a lie, but it was the only lie I had to believe to survive. “She was just tired. So, she tried to forget everything.”

Even me.

His fingers brush over mine again, slowly, like he’s giving me time to keep going.

“What do you remember from her?”

“I remember how her voice would disappear after she drank too much. How it would turn raspy, ruined from throwing up. I used to think it was a game. Trying to understand what she was saying.” I huff out something that almost sounds like a laugh.

“But deep down, I knew she didn’t even know what time it was.

Still, she was my mom. I had to believe she loved me. What else was a kid supposed to do?”

My chest tightens, and I squeeze his hand before I can stop myself.

Stay here. Don’t go.

“She always cried after hurting me. And I’d sit there, rubbing my cheek, wanting to comfort her.” I shake my head. “That was the fucked-up part. I was the one hurt, and I still wanted to be the one to make her feel better. But she cried for me. So maybe… maybe she did love me after all.”

He doesn’t say anything, but then his hand is on my cheek, warm and careful, and before I can process it, he’s pulling me against him.

His arms close around me, firm, solid, insanely him. His breath brushes the top of my head. “ Partner ,” he murmurs, “you make me want to keep you here until your body finally learns the difference between affection and violence.”

“You’ll have to tattoo it into my brain for me to remember…” I laugh, pathetically. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing closer. “That’s why they’re irises on the table,” I whisper. “Because she was still my mom. Even when she forgot it.”

A slow exhale, and then, a kiss , barely there, just the faintest press of lips against my hairline. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to accept it, but my body is giving in, exhaustion curling around me like a tide I can’t fight.

“I’ll buy you more irises,” he says softly. “An entire garden for my partner.”

I can’t breathe. “Would you?”

“Of course. I’ll make you love them again. With me. Only me .”

The words settle into me, deep, deeper.

“Purple ones,” I mumble.

And then I’m gone.

“Purple irises,” he replies back, and it’s the only thing I can hear before sleep finds me.

Purple irises…