Seven Years

You press the door closed behind you, soft and final. Even after all this time, you still don't want it to be heard. The air smells like birch and chicken cooking. Instead of the chill of danger, the warmth of safety has wrapped around you.

Your keys still tremble in your hand, but you try not to notice. You tighten your fingers to stop the rattle. Close your eyes and breathe; you are here. You are safe this time. Repeat it like scripture, and your body might start to believe it.

He stands in the kitchen, chatting on the phone while the water sloshes in the sink, tossing bubbles and droplets. His sleeves are pushed up, gentle hands squeezing a sponge over your dinner plate from the night before. Gentle hands, even when he's alone.

You know this because you studied him. You've watched him, looking for the clues that the smile he gives you might turn into a snarl. You listen for the hint of a hiss in his voice when he whispers, but you haven't heard it. You learned to read him like a map to make sure you aren't going down the roads that left you bruised and broken.

He doesn't know that every time he reaches for your hand, he is rewriting an old code, the one that taught you to recoil. He doesn't know that your ribs used to tense under a touch that started out as softly as his. That your shoulder still remember the tension of the whipcrack of thrown things mere inches from your head. That you prayed to many moons to teach you not to flinch.

-

You stand in the doorway a little too long.

He notices. He always notices.

He asks if you're okay. There's no test in his words, no trap layered under the tenderness. You nod. A lie, but not one formed in fear. He points to the box on the counter, your favorite tea. The one that he says smells like peppermint and ghosts.

He dries his hands of suds and water, and gives you a hug that feels like golden sunshine. Warm like the bath he drew you when he learned that showers still felt like a violation. Warm like the quiet nights when he touches only when asked, and treats you like sacred scripture.

You accept the hug, and he waits to let go, always letting you release first.

He tells you a story, something about some nonsense at work, and a silly moment with the neighborhood cat. The one with the torn ear that rubs your leg like it's therapy for both of you.

You blink.

You realize that this is the first moment you've let your guard down since coming in the house you bought together. Your body releases, you breathe easily. It's a crack in the brick wall you built around your trauma, but the crack lets the breeze in, and that's enough.

Suddenly, everything hurts.

Safety triggers this feeling sometimes. It comes from him not reaching when he sees you flinch. From him not expecting anything but existence from you. Your body can relax. And suddenly, the muscles can speak from their memories. Process them. Release them.

You excuse yourself. He doesn't chase you down the hall.

In the bathroom, you close the door. Lock it. Habit. He doesn't beat on the door with his fists.

Your breath hitches. You lean on the wall, and slide down. You find the position where you're smallest, safest. You remind your body that it's not bracing for impact anymore.

It still doesn't believe you.

-

You remember the night when he asked you to stay. Not sleep. Not touch. Not trapped. Just... stay.

He didn't know what he was asking.

He didn't know that the last man who asked that only wanted a target. Someone with a neck he could wrap his hands around. That when that man asked you to stay, it meant giving it all away.

Your body. Your silence. Your choice.

Your light.

But this man, this strange, beautiful man whose eyes are the same shade as that man's, he said "Stay," but he meant "Be free here, with me."

You stand, splash cold water on your face.

The reflection in the mirror is becoming recognizable again. There aren't any bruises. No cut lip. No dead, fearful eyes. No grey palor.

You see the version of you that wants to try again.

-

You press your forehead to the glass. Try to become one with the reflection. An old healing ritual of yours. A reminder.

It's been 5 years since that man touched you.

Five years since your body became your own again.

You are five years into the cellular exorcism of the man that still haunts you. Every organ, every bone, every drop of blood is working toward a quiet resurrection. In seven years, they say, you'll have a body that he never touched. Never hurt. Never broke. A mouth that was never forced open, skin that he never bruised, hands that never had to block a punch.

You are five years clean of his imprint. Two years away from renewal.

You are not a survivor. You are a revenant. A body that has walked through the fire, and emerged clean.

-

You unlock the door.

He asks again, are you okay, and this time, you can answer honestly.

"I think so."

He offers you his hand. No pressure to take it. But you want it, and you lace your fingers with his.

He leans forward to kiss you. It's not a demand, or a hunger, or a proof of his power. It's a question.

You say yes.

Somehow, it feels like the first time.

Not the first kiss. The first time it meant something other than a forced surrender.

The first time it didn't feel like being carved hollow so you are easier to break.

The first time you're allowed to kiss back, to reach first if you want to.

And you do.

You do.

With every ghost and demon clawing inside you, you do.

In this moment, the smallest moment of safety in the home you've built with him, you understand why they say love can heal.

It doesn't erase. But it rebuilds.

You aren't whole yet. But you are healing.

And for the first time, you believe you'll make it to seven years.