After experiencing a life-altering tragedy, Emersyn feels as if her world has collapsed. Attempting to accept her new reality, Emersyn wonders how she can possibly keep going when it feels like her life ended months ago. Until she meets Haven, and s...
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Later in the evening, Haven and I end up in my room.
The area is a mess–per usual–though Haven never seems to mind. I hardly even bat an eye at the pile of clothes I've left tossed haphazardly atop my desk chair as I fall atop my mattress, Haven following suit. A month ago, I would have been embarrassed for Haven to see the clutter in which I live–I would have worried she would see the mess around us and realize it's merely a hint as to the mess I am within. Now, Haven knowing I'm sort of a mess doesn't even phase me. She makes me feel . . . safe. Free to exist just as I am, despite all of the chaos that comes with that.
Haven smiles as she crosses her legs atop my bed, shifting to face me straight on. I mirror her stance, hugging my knees to my chest as I hold her stare. I can tell by the gleam in her eyes that she's thinking of something–I can nearly see the gears whirring in her mind, no doubt stirring up some sort of plot.
I can only take her silence and knowing smile for so long before snapping. An airy laugh escapes my lips as I lean forward to shove her shoulder, exasperatedly asking, "What are you thinking about?"
Haven giggles, shoving me back gently. She bites down on her lip as she smiles, uncrossing her legs as she shifts into a more comfortable position. Her expression turns thoughtful as her stare wanders. "I just . . . What's your favorite memory with your Dad?"
I hesitate for a moment, stiffening. I'm taken off guard, gaping as I try and fail to process the question. It's not that Haven's question has upset me, just . . . shocked me, I suppose. It has been a long time since anyone has asked me such a thing; it has been a long time since anyone has really spoken of Dad with me at all. Now that Haven knows the truth, I am still finding it hard to adjust to life where Dad's existence is once again acknowledged. Back home, everybody already knew the story, and nobody dared ask me about him. Since moving here, I have adapted to a new life, a life in which nobody knows about Dad, about what happened, about what I've gone through.
But Haven knows. She knows and she doesn't judge me. She knows and she is curious. She knows and she cares–really cares. I am thankful for this at the same time it is a little hard to accept. I'm struggling to grasp this new reality of mine, where the past has collided with the present.
Haven seems to take my extended silence as a sign that she has crossed a boundary. Her cheeks flush as she rushes to backtrack, "I mean, only if you're comfortable sharing. You don't have to talk about anything you don't–"
"It's okay," I say, cutting Haven off gently. I offer the faintest of smiles just to reassure her that she has done nothing wrong. A bit of the pink tinging her cheeks fades as Haven returns the gesture.
"I'm sorry," I add. I shake my head dazedly as I continue, "It's just . . . It's been a really long time since I've talked about it–him, I guess. I'm still getting used to it."
Haven nods as if she understands. Somehow, I know she really does. She slides a bit closer to my side, resting a comforting hand atop my knee as she murmurs, "I'm not trying to rush you. You can talk about whatever you want to, when you're ready. Just know I'll be here to listen."
