ROMAN'S POV
I can't sleep when he's not here.
Actually can't. Lie awake for hours staring at the ceiling. Check my phone. Check the time. Check my phone again.
He's in Dubai for business. Three days. Comes back tomorrow.
I've slept maybe four hours total since he left.
This is pathological.
I know it's pathological.
I still can't sleep.
---
Month thirteen.
One month since the breakdown. Since the scratching. Since I spent six weeks hiding in his penthouse unable to face the world.
The scars are still there. Thin white lines on my neck and arms.
I trace them sometimes. Evidence that I broke. Evidence that I survived.
Evidence that I'm not as strong as I pretended to be.
---
I tested him yesterday.
Not consciously. Not as a strategy.
Just—did it.
He called from Dubai. Said he'd be home Thursday.
I said: "Don't bother. I'm fine alone."
Silence on the other end.
"Roman—"
"I mean it. Stay the extra day. Do your business. I'm fine."
I hung up before he could respond.
Why did I do that?
I don't know. Reflex. Self-protection. Seeing if he'd actually stay away.
He didn't.
Changed his flight. Came home a day early. Walked into the penthouse at 2 AM looking exhausted.
"You're not fine alone," he said.
"I told you not to come."
"And I ignored you." He dropped his bag. "Because you were testing me and I'm not failing that test."
I should have been mad. Should have told him off for not listening.
Instead I burst into tears.
Just—fell apart. Right there in the entryway.
He held me until I stopped shaking.
"I hate this," I said into his chest.
"I know."
"I hate needing you."
"I know that too."
---
I moved in fully last month.
Gave up my apartment. Put everything in storage or brought it here.
It wasn't even a decision. Just happened.
One day I realized I hadn't been to my place in three weeks. That all my clothes were here. That I couldn't remember the last time I slept anywhere but his bed.
So I gave up the lease.
Avery asked if I was sure.
"What if you break up?"
"We won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know that if we break up I won't recover anyway. So it doesn't matter if I have my own apartment or not."
She looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I am.
---
The scars itch sometimes.
Not physically. Mentally.
I catch myself reaching for my neck. Stopping myself. Putting my hand down.
It's been a month since I scratched. A month since Khalid found me bleeding on the bathroom floor.
But the urge is still there. Sitting under my skin. Waiting.
I told him yesterday.
"The scars itch."
"Physically?"
"No. In my head."
He took my hand. Put it on his arm. "Remember the rule."
"Me not you."
"Me not you."
I pressed my nails into his skin. Not hard. Just there.
The relief was immediate.
---
I lie to him constantly.
Small lies. Testing lies.
"I'm fine." (I'm not fine)
"I don't need you." (I desperately need you)
"Go ahead, stay in Dubai." (Please come home)
He knows I'm lying every time.
Calls me on it maybe half the time. The other half he just—lets it happen. Like he knows I need to test. Like he's decided that passing the tests is more important than calling out the lies.
Is that healthy? Probably not.
Do I care? Not really.
---
I had a panic attack yesterday.
He was late coming home from a meeting. Two hours late.
Didn't answer his phone. Didn't text.
By hour one I was pacing.
By hour two I couldn't breathe.
I was sitting on the bathroom floor (why is it always the bathroom floor?) trying to remember how to breathe when he walked in.
"Roman—"
"Where were you?"
"Meeting ran long. My phone died."
"You were gone for hours."
"I know. I'm sorry."
I couldn't look at him. Couldn't admit that I'd spent two hours convinced he wasn't coming back.
He sat down next to me. Didn't touch me. Just sat there until my breathing evened out.
"You thought I left," he said quietly.
"No."
"You did."
"I didn't."
"Roman—"
"Fine. Yes. For like five minutes I thought maybe you'd realized this was insane and left."
"I'm not leaving."
"You don't know that."
"Yes I do." He took my hand. "I'm not leaving. No matter how many times you test me. No matter how many lies you tell. No matter how broken you feel. I'm staying."
I wanted to believe him.
I did believe him.
I also didn't believe him.
All three things simultaneously.
---
Leny called today.
First time I've talked to him since the breakdown.
"How are you?"
"Better."
"Really?"
"Getting there."
Silence. Then: "I'm sorry about the comments."
"Not your fault."
"I should have prepared you better."
"Nobody could have prepared me for that." I touch the scar on my neck. "It's fine. I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"Probably."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
We sat in silence for a minute.
"I have a project," he said finally. "Small film. No nudity. Directing opportunity. Interested?"
Six months ago I would have said yes immediately.
Now I said: "Can I think about it?"
"Of course."
"I'm not sure I'm ready to work again."
"I know. Take your time."
But I don't have time. I have dependency and fear and the constant need to test whether Khalid is real.
---
I told him I loved him again last night.
We were in bed. He was reading. I was just—lying there thinking about how much I need him.
"I love you," I said.
He looked up. "I know."
"No, I mean—" I stopped. How do I explain this? "I love you in a way that scares me. In a way that makes me feel like if you left I wouldn't survive it."
"I'm not leaving."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"How do you know?"
"Because I love you the same way." He set down his book. "I love you in a way that's probably not healthy. In a way that means I'd burn down my entire life if you asked me to."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? It's true."
"Because it makes this real. And if it's real then I can't pretend I can survive losing it."
He pulled me close. "Then don't lose it."
"What if I push you away?"
"I'll come back."
"What if I lie?"
"I'll see through it."
"What if I test you until you break?"
"I won't break."
I wanted to believe him.
I did believe him.
I also wanted to test it.
---
I'm afraid all the time now.
Not of him. Of losing him.
Every time he leaves the apartment I'm scared he won't come back.
Every time he's quiet I'm scared he's realized I'm not worth this.
Every time he looks at my scars I'm scared he sees how broken I am and decides it's too much.
The fear sits in my chest like a stone.
---
Avery came over last week.
First time I've seen her since before the breakdown.
She looked at me—really looked at me—and said: "You're different."
"I know."
"You're—" She paused. "Smaller. Like you're taking up less space."
"I know."
"Is that because of him?"
"No. It's because of the breakdown. Because of the comments. Because of—" I gestured vaguely at myself. "Everything."
"Does he make you happy?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes. But also no. He makes me feel safe and terrified simultaneously. He makes me feel loved and vulnerable. He makes me feel—" I stopped. "Dependent. And I hate feeling dependent."
"Then leave."
"I can't."
"You can."
"I won't survive it."
She looked at me for a long moment. "Then you need to figure out how to be dependent without losing yourself."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Figure it out. Because right now you're drowning."
---
I am drowning.
She's right.
I'm drowning in dependency and fear and the constant need to test whether he's real.
But I'm also—
I'm also more myself with him than I've ever been with anyone.
I'm broken and scared and vulnerable. And he sees all of that. And he stays anyway.
Maybe that's love.
Maybe that's what it looks like when you stop performing.
---
It's 3 AM.
He's asleep next to me. Arm around my waist. Breathing steady.
I'm lying here tracing the scars on my neck and trying not to panic about how much I need him.
About how completely I've surrendered to this.
About how I used to be strong and independent and now I can't sleep when he's not here.
This is what happens when you let someone in.
They become necessary.
And necessary means vulnerable.
And vulnerable means terrified.
But maybe—
Maybe it's worth it.
Maybe loving him is worth the fear.
Maybe needing him is worth the vulnerability.
Maybe surrendering to this is the bravest thing I've ever done.
Or maybe I'm just trying to make myself feel better about being completely, utterly dependent on another person.
I don't know.
All I know is I love him.
And I'm terrified.
And I can't imagine surviving without him.
And that's the truth.
Messy and scary and real.