Page 47 of Glass Jawed

So I turn, swiping them off with my shoulder—uselessly.

They just keep coming.

“I c-called it...” I sob, choking on the words. “R-rape b—”

I can’t finish.

Because the moment I say it, he looks down. And something in him breaks . Shame settles over his face like a shroud, his shoulders collapsing under the weight of it.

His tears follow mine, silent at first. Then not so silent.

“Baby...” he whispers, voice raw and hoarse, “it was either that or... I’m a cheater.”

He blinks rapidly, swiping at his eyes, but they’re overflowing now. Just like mine.

“I want to say this—and I know it’s not an excuse—but from the m-moment I kissed you, the only things I felt were love.

.. and g-guilt. Crushing guilt. For starting our relationship with a l-lie.

But never... never that . The plan—whatever twisted revenge I had in my head—it was already gone.

You were real . What we had was real . I don’t know if that helps. ”

His voice fully cracks at the end. He pauses, shoulders shaking.

“I don’t think it does,” he admits, brokenly.

That’s what undoes me.

Not his pain. Not his remorse. But his hopelessness. That even his honesty now might not be enough.

And suddenly I’m crying harder. Not just for myself—but for her.

The girl who had no idea what was happening. The girl who walked to the park that night like a ghost, wondering if she was ever anything more than a body to be used.

The girl who thought she had no choice. No voice. No worth.

I cry for her —for the pain she carried and the trust she misplaced.

For the way she gave her heart and body so freely and was left wondering what parts of her were even real anymore.

I cry until the world starts spinning.

The air thins.

The memory of that night floods back—the panic, the confusion, the devastation in his face when his words finally tore us apart.

“This is what I felt.”

I can’t breathe.

Oh God , I can’t—

“No, no, no , baby. Please— please no,” I hear him whisper frantically.

Then his arms are around me. I don’t know how or when, but I’m suddenly on his lap, curled into him like I’ve been here all along.

He’s rocking me, holding me like I might disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.

He whispers through his own tears, over and over, like a prayer:

“...so sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Breathe with me. C’mon, just... breathe.”

I can’t even tell if my henna’s smeared.

If the lemon and oil mixture is soaking through our clothes.

If he’s holding me too tightly or not tightly enough.

Through the haze, his voice finally starts to come into focus.

“I love you. I’m sorry. I love you so fucking much . Please don’t go. Please, please . I’m sorry.”

I don’t know where he thinks I’m going.

All I know is—I’m here. In his arms. And the panic, the weight of it, begins to lift. Just a little.

My breathing evens out slowly. I become aware of his hands—one stroking my back, the other threaded gently in my hair. His lips keep brushing my temple, his words still coming, still breaking , still full of love .

When I finally settle, his arms start to loosen, thinking I might want to pull away. But I don’t. I hold on tighter. Tighter than before.

And he understands.

He presses a kiss to my forehead. Then another. And another—each one an anchor tethering me back to this moment.

“Fuck...” he breathes out, trembling. “You scared the shit out of me. This was harder the second time.”

I glance up, surprised. His face is pale, tear-streaked, wrecked.

“Second... time?” I ask.

His expression twists. “I... fuck.” He swallows hard. “I saw you in the park that night. I... I followed you home.”

My breath catches. “Why?”

His eyes glisten again, his face crumples. “It was late. You looked so lost. And... I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

He looks away and lets out a broken, bitter laugh. “I mean... worse . Because something bad had already happened.”

The shame in his tone slices right through me. So I shift and snuggle into him, wrapping my arms around his back. My hands are dry, henna cracking against his shirt—but I don’t let go.

And neither does he.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers again. “I will never hurt you again. I swear it. I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you the man I really am.

The man you deserve . I—I don’t even know why I have the nerve to say that after everything I did.

But I love you. I want you. I don’t want to live without you. ”

I sniff, holding tighter.

And I listen.

Because this time... it’s not just words.

His actions have been speaking long before this moment. Quiet, patient, unwavering .

I’ve seen them.

“I’m so scared,” I whisper, voice barely there. And I know I’m clinging to him as I say it. My actions are not aligning with my words but that’s all I have in this moment.

“I’m scared too,” he murmurs, lips still pressed to my skin.

“I’m scared I haven’t healed enough to not accidentally hurt you again.

Scared you’ll pull away because the memories I gave you are too heavy.

.. too damaging . Scared my words aren’t enough.

So fucking scared that they’ll never be enough. ”

I exhale, eyes closed.

I want to tell him they are. That I see him. That I’ve felt the difference. In his eyes, his touch, his stillness.

That I believe him. Deep in my bones.

But instead, I tell him the one truth I’ve known longer than I’ve been willing to admit. The moment he gave me back my slippers, I knew.

So I lean in, trembling, heart wide open.

“I love you.”

His entire body stiffens—then folds. Like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

He starts to shake. His arms crush me to him, and his breathing breaks.

“God,” he chokes. “Oh god.”

I just hold him. Quiet and unflinching.