Eternal Ephemerals

Sure of everything

Daniel sat at the edge of the couch, staring at the dining table where a single candle flickered in the soft light of their apartment. He could hear Lily in the kitchen, humming softly as she moved, her footsteps light and sure. It was their first wedding anniversary. She'd planned a quiet dinner at home—just the two of them, the way they both liked it.

His eyes wandered to the vase of lilies she'd placed in the center of the table earlier, their petals delicately curved, as perfect and composed as everything she did. It wasn't just tonight—she was always like this. So put together, so sure of herself. Unshakable. It was one of the first things that had drawn him to her, but now, on this night of supposed celebration, he couldn't ignore the gnawing feeling in his chest.

He was the one who had changed since they met. He'd grown, become stronger, more confident because of her unwavering belief in him. When they started dating, he'd been a mess of uncertainty—unsure of what he wanted in life, questioning every step he took. But she had guided him, encouraged him, helped him shape his path. She had seen something in him that he hadn't seen in himself.

But as he watched her moving so effortlessly through their life together, a sharp thought burrowed deeper into his mind: What about her?

What have I given her?

He couldn't shake it, that terrible feeling that he'd lucked out, that he'd somehow stumbled into a life with someone far beyond him, someone who didn't even need him. Was he holding her back?

The thought was absurd—he knew it on some level—but that didn't make it any easier to push away. Every time he looked at her lately, the question echoed louder, filling the quiet moments between them, until tonight, it was all he could hear.

She didn't rely on him. Not in the way he relied on her. She was always the calm one, the composed one, the one who found solutions before problems even fully formed. She made decisions with such certainty that he sometimes wondered if she saw the future.

Was there anything I gave her that she couldn't already do for herself?

Lily's voice broke through his thoughts. "Dinner's ready. Want to help me bring it over?"

Her voice was light, filled with that gentle warmth she always carried. He nodded, standing up mechanically, his heart heavy with words he wasn't sure how to say. He followed her into the kitchen, where she was plating the food with her usual graceful efficiency.

He hesitated, picking up one of the plates, his fingers tightening around the edge as he stood there, unable to move.

"Lily..." The word came out before he even knew what he wanted to say. She turned to him, her eyes bright, her smile easy.

"What is it?"

He faltered. The weight of what he'd been thinking for weeks, maybe months, hung in the air between them, so heavy it felt hard to breathe around it. How could he ask this? On their anniversary, of all nights? But he couldn't stop himself anymore. The doubt had grown too loud, too suffocating.

"Do you—" He swallowed, his throat tight. "Do you ever feel like I'm... holding you back?"

The smile slipped from her face, replaced by a look of quiet surprise. She set the plate down, her hands moving with the same controlled calm she always had, but her eyes were searching his now, looking for the meaning behind his words.

"Where is this coming from?" she asked softly.

He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn't anticipated. "I just... I've been thinking. About us. About you."

She stepped closer, concern knitting her brow. "Daniel, what are you talking about?"

His chest tightened, and before he could stop it, the words started to spill out. "You're just... so sure of everything. You've always been so composed, so independent. You were like that when we met, and you're still like that now. I look at you, and I feel like you've helped me grow in a million ways, but I don't know what I've done for you." His voice faltered, the vulnerability cracking through. "I mean, have I changed anything for you at all? Or am I just... am I just in the way? What have I given you that you didn't already have?"

The air between them felt too still, too quiet. He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. His heart raced, panic threading through him as the fear finally bled out into the open. Had he just made a mistake?

Lily didn't respond right away. The silence stretched on, unbearable, and in that silence, every insecurity he'd buried rose to the surface. His breath felt shallow, and he couldn't stop the flood of thoughts: What if I'm not enough for her? What if she deserves someone more—more capable, more sure of himself?

But then, after what felt like an eternity, she reached for his hand. Her touch was gentle, grounding. Slowly, she pulled him toward the couch, and they sat down together, the soft fabric sinking beneath them.

"Daniel," she began, her voice low, soothing, "I don't know where you're getting this idea that you haven't done anything for me. You think I haven't changed because I seem composed? You think I haven't grown because I don't fall apart the way you do sometimes?" Her eyes were locked on his now, unwavering.

He opened his mouth to respond, but she continued, her voice growing more intense—not in anger, but in the urgency of someone trying to break through to a place she hadn't realized needed breaking.

"I wasn't always like this," she said. "I wasn't always so sure of myself. You've given me more than you realize, Daniel. You've shown me what it means to be truly loved, fully accepted. You've taught me how to trust someone with the parts of myself I've never shared with anyone else. You think I don't need you? You don't understand. I've never let myself need someone the way I need you."

His breath hitched, the depth of her words sinking in. "But you're so—"

"I'm composed because of us." Her voice softened again, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, and for the first time, he saw something different in her eyes. A vulnerability she rarely let surface. "Because I trust you. I've always been independent, but I didn't know how to rely on someone until I met you. You helped me open up, Daniel. You've helped me grow in ways that don't always show on the outside."

His throat tightened with emotion. He'd been so consumed with his own doubts that he hadn't seen what had been happening between them, hadn't seen what he'd truly given her.

"I chose you," she said quietly, her voice trembling with a raw honesty that broke through the last of his insecurities. "I choose you every day. And that's not shackling me. It's freeing me in ways I didn't know I needed to be freed."

He stared at her, overwhelmed. "Lily, I—"

But she placed a finger to his lips, silencing him with a gentle smile. "You're enough, Daniel. You've always been enough."

The knot in his chest unraveled, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. The doubts, the insecurities, the unspoken fears—they dissolved in the warmth of her touch, in the steady rhythm of her breath against his.

"I love you," he whispered, the words aching with the weight of everything he hadn't said before.

She smiled, her fingers threading through his. "I love you, too."

And in the quiet that followed, for the first time in weeks, Daniel felt at peace.