There's a certain kind of madness that comes with being loved when you don't think you deserve it.
Like holding something fragile in your hands and wanting to crush it —
Just to prove you were right when you said you'd ruin everything.
I started picking fights with Kiaan.
Little things, at first.
Why didn't you text me back fast enough?
Why did you hang out with her?
Why do you even like me?
He answered every question like he was defusing a bomb.
"I fell asleep."
"She's just a friend."
"Because you're you."
I wanted to believe him.
But belief felt like a risk I couldn't afford.
So I kept pushing.
Kept setting fires, just to see if he'd bother putting them out.
One night, I went too far.
We were at my apartment, and I'd been distant all evening. Kiaan kept trying to pull me back — asking if I was okay, brushing his fingers against mine.
And then he asked me what I wanted from him.
And I snapped.
"I want you to leave," I spat, my voice shaking.
His face didn't change.
"Why?" he asked, voice low.
"Because this isn't real," I choked out, stepping back like he was something I needed distance from. "You're going to get tired of me. You're going to leave, and I'd rather get it over with now."
Kiaan's jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to breathe through the ache.
"I'm not leaving," he said, quiet but sharp, like he was daring me to believe him.
I laughed, bitter and broken. "You will. Everyone does."
I wanted him to yell.
I wanted him to slam the door.
I wanted him to prove me right.
But instead, he just stood there — tears burning in his eyes — watching me unravel.
"Stop trying to make me the villain," he whispered. "I'm not your father."
I shattered.
Because that was it, wasn't it?
I wasn't afraid of Kiaan leaving.
I was afraid he'd stay.
That he'd love me the way I always wanted to be loved —
And it would still never fill the hole in my chest.
I sank to the floor, sobbing, and Kiaan sank with me.
He didn't touch me.
Didn't try to fix it.
He just sat there, silent, and let me break.
Later that night, after my tears had dried and my body felt hollow, Kiaan finally spoke.
"You can't love me in pieces," he said, his voice like gravel. "You have to decide if you want to let me in — or keep building walls and calling them protection."
I turned my face away, guilt curling in my chest. "I don't know how to stop being afraid."
Kiaan brushed my hair behind my ear, his touch so gentle I wanted to scream.
"Then be afraid," he whispered. "I'll love you through it."
That night, after he fell asleep, I wrote another poem:
Love shouldn't feel like a funeral.
But every time he stays —
I mourn the version of myself that never learned how to trust it.
I want to believe in softness.
But what if my hands only know how to hold thorns?
I didn't sleep.
I just watched him breathe — watched the steady rise and fall of his chest — and wondered what it would feel like to finally, finally, let someone love me without trying to destroy it.
I didn't know if I could.
But for the first time, I wanted to try.