Page 26

24

SHARING IS CARING

W e talk about everything.

I’ve never had this before, a partner who’s genuinely interested in the intricate workings of my mind, my soul. He’s interested in my deepest fears and regrets, as well as my hopes and dreams.

And Timmy listens, he really listens. He leans in, his gorgeous blue eyes locked on mine, as if nothing else in the world exists except our conversation. It feels intoxicating, like a drug I didn’t know I needed.

My exes have never really been into deep conversations, especially my most recent one, who would shove away any type of conversation about existentialism or anything else that would make him focus on human emotion. Any emotion, or anything painful, would make him shut down and retreat into his own little world, brushing it all off as if it didn’t matter. That was his actual saying: nothing matters.

And Timmy is such an opposite swing of the pendulum. It’s as though I’ve been walking around half-asleep for years, and suddenly, Timmy’s awakened this dormant part of me, encouraging me to unravel parts of myself that I never thought I’d share with anyone. Sure, some people know the basics, but I take him to depths I thought were buried deep inside.

“Tell me more about him, and what he meant to you,” Timmy says softly, after I mention my uncle—who was such a special part of my life, who died too young, too unexpectedly. The weight of the memory presses on my chest, but Timmy’s gaze is so full of warmth and understanding that I find myself opening up with him more than I have with anyone before.

“He was my hero,” I start, my voice trembling as I recount memories of a man who always believed in me, who was always proud of me, and was one of my biggest champions. Who helped me through one of the darkest times of my life. “When he passed, I just… I don’t know if I ever really recovered. It feels like I lost part of myself, you know? Like this big chunk of care and security that I’ll never get back.” Tears prick my eyes, and I feel my throat tighten, but I press on, trusting Timmy with a part of me that’s raw and vulnerable. “Sometimes, I still wake after a dream that makes me feel like he’s still alive. But then everything comes rushing back, and I remember that he’s gone.”

Timmy reaches out and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. His eyes are wet, too. “I get it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “Loss like that… it leaves a mark. I’ve had several friends die in the past few years. And their deaths still hurt like it was yesterday.”

The moment feels profound. For the first time, I’m with someone who seems to be able to understand. Someone who can feel things the way I do. Someone who doesn’t shy away from difficult emotions, or retreat when the conversation gets too heavy. Timmy leans in, brushing a tear from my cheek with his thumb, and my heart swells. His emotional sensitivity—it’s like a form of intelligence I’ve never encountered before in an intimate partner. It feels like he’s seeing all of me, and accepting every damaged piece of me without hesitation. And his unconditional support feels like an emotional balm, healing me in places I didn’t know I needed.

I take a deep breath, encouraged by his tenderness. I’ve alluded to my sexual assault with him before, but never gone into explicit detail. “ There’s more,” I whisper, my heart pounding as I prepare to expose more of one of my greatest wounds that I generally keep buried. Like, people are aware it happened, but not the extent to which the events of that incident have affected me. How depraved my attacker was, and the indelible imprints he’s left on me. The emotional scars. “It left me broken in ways that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fix, despite all the therapy.” My voice falters, but I push through the tremble. “I have PTSD. Certain sounds, certain places… they take me back to it, and it’s like I’m there all over again. I’m sensitive to loud noises, and I can snap back into hypervigilance even though it happened so many years ago.”

Timmy’s eyes flood with tears. His hand tightens around mine, and he shakes his head as if my story is almost too much to bear. “That’s so horrible,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry you went through that. No one should ever have to feel that kind of fear.”

He looks down for a moment, his own breath hitching, as if he’s absorbing the weight of my pain. Then, without prompting, he shares his own story. “My family… I love my parents, but they were never really there for me once I became a teenager. After a fight with my sister’s boyfriend that turned physical, they kind of cut me off. They moved away, leaving me here on the Cay. My dad, especially. He couldn’t handle me. I guess I was always ‘too much’, you know?” He smiles, but it’s a sad, broken thing, filled with unspoken wounds. In that instant, while Timmy is certainly ‘a lot’ at times, I vow to never exacerbate his wound by telling him he’s too much. I feel protective of him, defensive of anyone who would make him relive how those relationships made him feel. “That’s why I haven’t been speaking with them lately,” he explains. “Well, that, and because my mother refuses to stop speaking to my ex.”

The connection between us deepens in this moment, a shared understanding of hurt and loss. It feels like we’re two broken people who have finally found the other person who can help to make us whole again. I feel free, open to be vulnerable. There’s no judgment, no impatience—just tenderness and empathy.

I wipe my eyes and look at him, grateful for his presence. “Thank you for listening, for caring. And for sharing with me, too. It means so much.”

He smiles at me softly and leans forward to kiss my forehead, although his eyes are still clouded with emotion. “I care about everything that makes you you,” he says, his voice gentle but sure. “Every little thing. Just like I care about every one of your freckles.”

I smile, feeling a little lighter. God, this man is everything.

“I’ve never been able to talk like this with a partner before, to speak in a way that’s raw, and have someone really understand and reciprocate.”

Timmy’s expression hardens for a moment, almost imperceptibly, before it softens again.

He leans in closer, swiping a stray lock of hair off my face. “Well, those people were all idiots. You’re so kind and sweet and you’ve been through so much,” he says, his voice deep and reassuring. “I can’t imagine not knowing everything about you. I’m here, Margaux, and I want to hear it all. You never have to hold back with me.”

It’s like a weight lifts off my shoulders. For the first time, I feel truly safe. I tell him more—about the nights when I wake up from nightmares screaming, drenched in sweat, the memories of the assault clawing at me, leaving me breathless. I tell him about how scared I am sometimes, how fragile I feel when those moments hit me. How I know I’ve made so much progress, but those setbacks have me reeling and it feels like I’m backsliding every now and then. And Timmy listens intently, nodding, squeezing my hand, his face a picture of compassion.

He starts sharing again, too, but his stories are different. Vague. “I’ve lost people, too,” he says. “And been hurt by others.” He glances away, as if the memory is too painful to hold eye contact over. “The ones who have passed… friends, family, people close to me. I keep little things to remember them by, like this quilt.” He gestures to an old, threadbare stitched blanket on the chair. “It’s falling apart and covered in stains that I can’t get out, but it means the world to me. It’s all I have left.”

I reach out to touch the quilt, feeling the worn fabric beneath my fingers, taking care not to knock one of the patchwork triangles that’s hanging by a thread next to an unknown mark that looks a bit like ketchup. “That’s beautiful,” I say softly, but something nags at the back of my mind. He’s mentioning friends and family, but not by name. “Who gave it to you?”

He hesitates, his eyes distant. “A friend. Someone you don’t know. It’s not important.” He smiles, but this time, for some reason, it feels more like a mask. “What matters is that I have it.”

The conversation shifts, and he talks about other trinkets he’s kept that he holds dear. A couple of rings another unnamed friend gave him when he helped her to move, a small foil baby shark balloon that he claims holds sentimental value as it starts to sag as the helium deflates out of it. He’s emotional about these objects, tears welling in his eyes as he talks about how important they are to him. But he leaves it at that, seemingly preferring not to go deeper.

Still, I don’t press. It’s enough that he’s sharing. He’s being vulnerable in his own way. He doesn’t need to tell me everything, and if he wants to, he will in his own time. We’re a safe space for each other now.

It’s so freeing, like I can finally truly breathe. That I have a partner to share in my joy, my pain, and my mess—our mess, now. I drown in the sweetness of his attention, in the idea that I’ve finally found someone who gets me. Someone who cares.

He makes me feel so safe.

He makes me feel so seen.

It’s the two things I’ve craved all my life.

When I’ve been abandoned by nearly everyone, he’s just what I need. Kind, attentive, a protector who also makes me laugh—and he’s cute. Every insecurity I have is something he loves about me.

Every fucking thing.

When I was younger, I felt like I had a true love, a soulmate waiting in the wings, somewhere, somehow. I believed it was in my cards. That hope had faded over the years, like it was just a silly thing, a nice concept that doesn’t actually exist. But now I have Timmy.

And I have never ever felt such pure joy.