Page 146 of Misery

Not a promise that love conquers all.

It's real, complicated, honest.

It's acknowledging that we're building on damaged ground but building anyway.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll be your ol' lady. But we do this as equals. You don't make decisions for me. Don't hide things from me."

"Agreed."

"And we go slow. I'm not ready to just pretend everything's fine. This isn't a clean slate. It's writing over old words that still show through."

"I know."

"But I'm willing to try. To build something new, even if it's built on a cracked foundation."

He reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving me time to pull away.

When I don't, his hand finds mine. Warm. Solid. Real. "That's more than I deserve."

"Yes, it is."

We sit there, hands linked, the weight of commitment between us.

It's not forgiveness, not yet.

But it's a choice.

Mychoice.

And in this life where choices are so often taken away, that means everything.

"There's something else," he says. "Even though the threat is over, I don’t think you should go back to your old apartment. Too many memories, and the lease is up anyway. I checked with the landlord, he's already got it cleaned and re-rented."

"I know."

"Move in with me. Not here, my place. I have a house on the other side of town. Nothing fancy, but it's safe. Private. Two bedrooms, so you can have your own space when you need it, even turn it into an art studio, and sometimes we can head down to the cottage for a little getaway."

Living together. Real commitment. Real life.

"That's a big step."

"We've already been through bigger shit than that."

True. Kidnapping, torture, death, betrayal.

Moving in together seems almost quaint in comparison.

"Can I paint there?"

"Of course, and there's a garage if you need more space."

"And we have boundaries? I'm not ready to share a bed every night. I think we should build up slowly."

"Whatever you need. Your room, my room, our room—however you want to structure it."