Page 448 of Eternal
DAMIR
“Hold On” by Chord Overstreet
Present
The house is empty and sad. It’s been like that since last year.
I have her journal with me, I never opened it. Not once, not when we buried her, not in the silence after.
But today is her birthday.
I sit on the swing in the garden. The irises sway around me, like they’re still watching and waiting to be loved like you could’ve had.
I open the journal gently, the one you made me promise not to read, the one you tucked your words into, between the ruins of your mother’s, the one they ruined, and I'm scared to look.
A laugh slips out of my mouth.
I’m talking to a ghost.
“Dear Journal,
Is that how people start journaling?
My mom never did that. She used to just… tell things. Easily. Like it was natural for her.
I don’t have her eloquence. If I’m being honest, I only have her pain and trauma.
Yours, Mom. If you’re watching me write this down.
I don’t even know why I’m writing. Damir is behind me, sleeping. He looks soft. Delicate. Like a ball of love he doesn’t even see in himself. But I see it, I see it because I’ve never seen anything like it before. Not this full. Not this safe. Not this soft. Not this beautiful.
He probably would hate reading this. Big bad Viper who’s cuddling me every night and kisses me every day.
My heart feels… sad. And happy. Both.
I feel like there’s no way out, and he still makes me feel happy.
Not movie happy. Not stupid happy. Home happy.
The kind of home I never had. The one that wasn’t loud and sharp and scary. With him, home is just… laughter. Peace. Even when I drink too much. Even when I spiral. He believes in me.
Who would’ve thought that was even possible? Me? Broken like I am. Stupid like I am.
Loved. Unconditionally. Not just a little bit. Not with conditions. Not on good days. Loved.
Sometimes I think he’s scared for me, that my sadness is too much, too heavy, that it’ll drown him like it drowns me. And he might be right, I think he is right.
I hate the look on his face when he sees me like that. I made him live through it, the way Mom made me. The drunk nights. The passing out. The way I shut down just because feeling anything scared me.
Some might say it’s a trauma response. Maybe it is. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting. And it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could be better for him.
He braids my hair every day, kisses my scars. He’s never said I love you. Neither have I.
I never thought I’d have this. Strong, solid, safe arms. Love.
I wish I could tell him I love him, but I feel like I’d die if I did. That’s what they taught me, loving too hard was dangerous, saying it was worse.
But I do, I love him. I love his smile, his eyes, his laugh. The way he kisses me, the way he believes in me. He makes me feel okay when all I feel is hopelessness.
