The Love Of My Life

Chapter 17

Tony's POV

I don't understand why she's upset with me. I don't. It's not like I'm trying to make things worse; I'm trying to protect her. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Isn't that what she'd want me to do? I can't just sit back and watch her crumble and not do anything about it. I see how she carries herself like she's holding everything together with tape and glue, and I just...I don't know how to fix it. She won't let me in. I feel like every time I try, she pushes me out, and the wall between us gets higher and higher. But what am I supposed to do, let her keep hurting? Pretend like I don't see what's happening?

The truth is, I'm scared. I'm afraid for her, scared of what all this pain is doing to her. She doesn't see it, but I do. The way she gets quiet and distant. She avoids my eyes when I ask her how she's feeling. And sometimes, I catch her staring at nothing like she's lost somewhere I can't follow. I don't know what's in her head, but I know it's heavy, and it's killing me that I can't take some of it away. I'd do anything to ease her pain, but I don't think she gets that. She looks at me like I'm trying to control her, but I'm not. I swear I'm not. I just want her to heal, to be okay again.

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I want it too badly. Maybe I'm trying too hard. But how do you stop trying when it's the person you love? How do you step back and let them figure it out on their own when every instinct in your body is screaming at you to help? I know she needs time to heal, and I know it's not something I can rush. I know that. But I also know that healing doesn't just happen. You've got to work at it. You've got to face the things that hurt you, and I don't think she's ready to do that. And if she's not ready, what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch her drown? I don't know. I don't know what the right thing is. All I know is that I love her, and I'm scared out of my mind that love might not be enough this time.

I've been going over it in my head all day, trying to figure out how to bring it up without making her feel like I'm attacking her or like I think she's broken. She's not broken—not to me. But I can't deny that she's struggling. I see it every day, in the little ways she tries to pretend she's okay, in the way she forces a smile when I know she doesn't mean it. And as much as I try to be there for her, I know there are things I can't fix. I hate admitting that, but it's the truth. So, tonight, I decided I was going to bring it up. Therapy. It's been sitting on my tongue for weeks, but every time I think about saying it, I hesitate. I know how she might react. Maya's proud—she's always been. She doesn't like people thinking she needs help, let alone admitting it herself. And I get it, I do. But I can't keep watching her carry this pain by herself.

After dinner, we made it back to the hotel. Maya gets in the shower, and I follow right behind. Once I got out, I saw her curled up on the bed with her legs tucked under her, staring at the TV, though I could tell she wasn't watching. She's been doing that a lot lately—staring at nothing like her mind is somewhere else entirely. I sat down next to her, close enough that our knees touched. She glanced at me, her eyes flickering with curiosity and maybe a little bit of that exhaustion she tried so hard to hide. "Baby," I started, my voice softer than I intended. I cleared my throat, trying to sound sure of myself even though my heart was pounding. "I want to talk to you about something," I said, Her brow furrowed a little, and she shifted her position, sitting up straighter. "What is it?" she asked cautiously, her tone already guarded.

I took a deep breath, running my hand over my face. "I've been thinking," I said, choosing my words carefully, "about everything you've been dealing with lately. And I just... I think maybe it might help if you had someone to talk to." I said, slightly scared of what she will say, Her eyes narrowed slightly, and I could feel the tension creeping into the space between us. "I already have someone to talk to, Tony," she said, her voice clipped. "I have you." She said, "I know, I know," I said quickly, holding up my hands like I was trying to diffuse a bomb. "And I'll always be here for you, Baby. You know that. But..." I hesitated, swallowing hard. "I think it might help to talk to someone who's trained for this. A therapist." I finished. Her reaction was immediate—her body stiffened, and she pulled back like the word itself was some kind of insult. "Therapist?" she repeated, her tone laced with disbelief. "Tony, I don't need a therapist. I'm fine." She said, I swear she says fine so much, and that's the problem. "You're not fine," I said more forcefully than I intended. I softened my tone when I saw the way her jaw tightened. "Baby, I love you. And I see what this is doing to you, even if you don't want to admit it. I'm not saying you're weak or that there's something wrong with you. But you've been through a lot, and it's okay to need help sometimes." I said.