⤷ 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮𝙜𝙪𝙖𝙧𝙙!𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩 𝙭 𝙣𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧
Application Fees. Start date. GPA. Maiden name. The words on the screen burn into the computer, and you squint your eyes. It feels like it’s been years since you’ve been applying to schools, since you’ve moved from LA and flipped your life completely. Things are less expensive here. There’s no Erewhon, gas isn’t five dollars a gallon, and the housing is that bad. Matt says you don’t have to work, that he’ll take care of you. He always takes care of you. But then what would’ve been the point? Moving? Starting a brand new life with him? Your father cutting you off? You were going to make something of yourself. You’d apply to law school. You’d make friends. You’d be happy.
You were happy. You had Matt. Life was easy now, simple. You both took care of the house and tended the garden; he left for work and came home every night, but you just sat.
The phone buzzes beside the laptop. Dad. Your stomach falls, the room slows, tunnel vision. You dig your nails into your palm.
He hadn’t called since you left. Quick texts here and there of “How are you?” or “What town did you say you moved to again?” It’s all distant. All cold.
“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice comes through the other end. Warm and happy, almost rehearsed. What time even is it in Paris?
“Hey,” you manage. You tell him that you’re fine, that you’re applying to schools. He asks about friends: "Do you have any?" You lie. You tell him the house is coming together and that you’re happy. That word again.
“You know you can come back if you want to. My movie is wrapping up. I’m moving back to Los Angeles. No, you can’t bring Matt.” The words haunt you on the screen as your dad talks. Penn State. Temple. Kutztown. Drexel. He ends the call by saying, "You sound different." But you are different now, different is good…right?
After you hang up, the silence stretches. The microwave flashes four thirty pm. Matt will be home soon. Your stomach twists around the words “you know you can come back if you want to” and tightens at the way your brain, even if only for half a second, considered it.
The laptop snaps closed. Your feet bring you to the bathroom. You’ve been working on it for so long, so many nights of paint swatches of Matt insisting the colors were the same when they obviously weren’t. You were building this home together. This life together. Your reflection looks different, tired, older, softer maybe.
Your hand brushes down your face, and you splash your face with cold water, telling yourself to snap out of it. You wanted this. You needed this.
You dry your hands with a hand towel, staring at the porcelain sink as the water drains through the pipes. You can remember Matt putting this sink in for you; he knew you loved it as soon as you laid eyes on it, even though you already had a perfectly working sink. He bought it for you. He didn’t know how to install a new sink, didn’t know how to work with the pipes, didn’t know much about renovating a house, but he learned for you.
You reach for your phone on the counter. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard.
You stare at the screen. Matt’s contact picture. You took it in the summer; it was so hot, and he was moody, but you thought he looked so handsome.
“Please, Matt, just right in front of this tree,” you giggle, moving him to where you wanted him.
“Baby, it’s so hot I wanna get back to the car.” Matt took a breath through his nose, his jaw right.
He ended up posting that picture later. Taken by the love of my life, he captioned it.
“he’s moving back to LA.”
“said he’d take me back.”
Three dots appear. Then disappear.
The water is warm on your back, your soap-stung eyes watch as the suds circle around the drain and then fall into it. You scrub your body hard and imagine the dead cells clumping together and falling off of your legs, your arms, your torso. It felt like you were recreating yourself, shedding your old skin and generating a new body that would survive Pennsylvania winters. Isn’t that what you have been doing? Changing, becoming something brand new. You couldn’t figure out if you were the same person as before, before Paris, before Matt, even, but was that a bad thing? To change?
You turn the water off when you hear the gravel. You stand still in the shower, water dripping down your spine, listening like you’re trying to match each sound to a part of him.
Boots on the cement steps.
Keys on the table - the metallic clatter you know by heart.
Your chest tightens. It always does, even on good days.
You wrap a towel around yourself and step out into the steam heavy bathroom. Your phone mimics the fogged bathroom mirror. Cloudy, wet. No text.
You crack the door, and the cool air from the dark hallway makes you shiver. You can hear him, his movements slow. Unpacking the tupperware from his lunch box, placing them into the sink, washing his hands. You can tell he’s in his head. Usually, he is rushing to see you, throwing the dirty dishes in the sink and washing them quickly, and his hands are generally still soapy and wet when he finally gets to you.
His voice comes out soft, almost tentative.
His boots thud up the steps. There are twelve steps. You count in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He skipped some.
He looks at you - towel, wet hair sticking to your forehead, eyes red with soap residue and tears - and you know he reads it all in one breath.
He doesn’t touch you yet. He wants to gauge the situation first, not assume.
He swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth. A habit. He wants to say something.
“I’m gonna make dinner,” he murmurs. “Come down when you’re ready.”
He glances at your phone on the sink behind you.
His jaw ticks - tiny, but you know him too well.
“I saw your texts,” he adds quietly.
Just not making you say it first.
Then he turns, making his way down the dark hallway. Down the staircase, just not skipping any this time.
You’re suddenly very aware of everything that is touching you. The cold towel on the bottom of your feet, the towel fibers brushing against your naked body, your wet hair at the nape of your neck. You try to remember the way Matt looked when he said he saw the texts. His face was blank, not hard, not soft, he was trying to not project any emotion.
His soft shirt feels good on your body; your cotton shorts feel better than the cold, damp towel. Your wet hair rises and falls away from your neck. Guilt hits you in the gut. How could you possibly have thought about your old life when he just came home from a ten-hour shift and is making dinner for you?
“Come down when you’re ready.” Usually, you help him or pretend to help him, sneaking bits of pepper into your mouth as he works over the hot stove. “Come down when you’re ready.”
At the top of the stairs, you pause.
Chopping something on the cutting board.
His breathing - steady, but deeper than usual.
You descend slowly. Eleven, ten, nine…
On step eight, the smell hits you.
Your stomach turns. Nerves. Guilt. Something.
On step three, you hear the scratch of a match and a crackle of a wick.
It’s quiet at first, your ears training to hear it. Your feet are on the wooden floor now, the music becomes clearer; a piano melody swirls from the kitchen directly to you. Warm. Familiar. Heartbreaking.
The kitchen is dim, lit only by two candles on the table–cheap little jars you bought at TJ Maxx, a store you promised yourself you wouldn't become a regular at. They glow brighter tonight.
Matt stands at the counter, shoulders drawn in a little, brow furrowed in concentration as he stirs whatever is in the pan. His hair is messy from his hands running through it. His uniform shirt is unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up.
He looks over his shoulder at you when he hears you. Relief flashes across his face.
You came down. You’re here. Good.
His voice is low, gentle.
You nod. You’re not hungry. Another lie. You can’t even think about food right now.
He turns off the burner now, placing the pan to the side and wiping his hands on the dish towel. He clears his throat. His cheeks are rosy either from the heat the stove or nerves. Matt wasn’t exactly the romantic type; he was more of an act-of-service man. He’d do anything for you, without even asking. Cook dinners. Fix shelves. Your laundry.
He gestures to the record player, the record spinning against the needle; he’s embarrassed to bring attention to it. “It’s an old vinyl I had.” his voice is quiet. “Song, uh, reminded me of you,” he clears his throat.
Your throat stings again, and you blink.
“Bad day?” he steps closer now, so close. You can feel the warmth from his body, see the stubble from his beard growing in, smell garlic and cumin on him.
You nod again, and fear he might think you’ve gone mute.
“Wanna tell me?” his hand reaches for your face now, a thumb softly brushing under your eye, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“I don’t know,” your voice cracks and sounds muffled, weird, distant. “I don’t know anything right now.”
Matt nods and reaches for your hand, pulling you into the open space in the kitchen. “C’mere.” His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close to him, and you wrap your arms around his neck. For a moment, neither of you talk, all you can hear is his heart, slow and steady, and Billy Joel’s voice filling the kitchen. You sway.
“You’re so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need, though you can see when you’re wrong, you know, you can’t always see when you’re right, you’re right.”
You feel his lips press to your ear. “You know it’s okay that you’re confused, or, or I dunno considering it.” His voice is gentle.
“Shh,” He pulls back to look at you. “You’ve made the biggest sacrifice here, not me, you. You’ve been brave, made changes, left a life behind.”
Tears fall before you can stop them, and you suck in a breath. You hide your face in his shirt, the hot tears dampening the fabric.
Matt pulls you tighter, one hand to the back of your head, cradling it. Shielding you, protecting you. “I’ve got you, baby,” he mumbles into your hair. “I’ve always got you.”
You breath tumbles out of you, uneven.
“I’m trying,” you sniffle. “Fuck, I’m trying just to be happy here, I-“ a deep breath, “And I am-please know that I am-it’s just a lot. And hearing him today just randomly saying I could go back as if nothing happened, it just messed with me.”
He leans back to look at you—his thumb wiping your hot tears. “I know, it’s confusing. It’s a lot and you, you’re doing a lot.”
Matt rolls his eyes, but you know it’s playful. His forehead touches yours, and he breathes in deep. “Not as much as you, I mean, who else would be taking daily trips to TJ Maxx and send me pictures of decorative pillows?” he smirks.
“And listen,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “If you ever need to go back, or need to visit, or figure things out, I’d understand.”
You shake your head immediately, panic rising. “No, I don’t want to go back. Why would you say that?”
“I'm not telling you to, baby. I just want you to know you have a choice. And I'd understand. I know you don’t want to go back, but I know this must be hard for you. It can’t be easy. You’re allowed to think. To feel. You’re allowed to miss your old life.”
Another tear slips, and he places his hands on your shoulders, massaging.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” he murmurs. “You’re allowed to be confused, but you’re not allowed to shut me out, okay? I won’t be mad at you.”
“You’re happy with me?” he whispers quickly.
Matt nods, almost looking relieved, guilt hitting your gut again. “Me too. Happiest I’ve ever been, and I want to keep you happy.”
His words settle between you two. The kitchen is quiet now, the record stopped.
“Matt,” you mumble, your voice wobbling, “you don’t have to keep me happy. That’s..that’s not your job.”
He huffs, confusion and disbelief washing over his features. “That’s the only job that matters to me. You.”
Your chest tightens. His hands move from your shoulders down your arms, slow and reassuring, thumbs gliding over the inside of your elbows.
“I don’t want you feeling guilty,” he says, softer now. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I thought about it,” the words spill out of your chest, the guilt that has been stuck to the inside of your stomach tries to crawl up your throat. “When he said I could come back, I thought about it for half of a second. And I feel sick about it.’
He shakes his head instantly, forehead brushing yours again.
“You’re human,” he murmurs. “That’s all that was. I can’t be mad at you for that, let alone be angry with you. Okay?”
“And I could be doing better. Getting you out more, you need friends, a life separate from me.” He whispers, and your eyes roll immediately.
“I can’t really complain when you work and I stay at home and decorate.”
“I saw your laptop on the kitchen table. You were applying to school.”
“So stop comparing, stop saying you’re doing nothing. You’re gonna get in, you’re a smart girl. My smart girl.” He kisses your forehead. “It’ll get better, things will get easier, I promise. Do you trust me?”
You laugh. “Of course I trust you; you were literally my bodyguard.”
Matt laughs with you, and he squints. “Yeah, yeah,” he pauses to just look at you. “No more overthinking in that pretty little head of yours tonight." He taps his finger on your temple. “No more being mean to my baby.” He turns to go back to the stove. “Let’s get you fed-” Your hands stop him, grabbing his forearm.
“I want to dance again,” you whisper.
Matt’s eyes soften the second the words leave your mouth.
Not talk, not apologize, not spiral.
You nod, fingers still curled around his forearm.
He places his other hand over yours—large, warm, steady—and gives the tiniest squeeze, like he’s saying I hear you. I’m here.
He lets go only long enough to walk to the record player. He flips the vinyl gently, like it’s something fragile, something he’s afraid to mishandle. The needle drops with a soft crackle.
And then the piano begins again.
Slow down, you crazy child…
He turns back to you slowly, almost shy now. His cheeks are still rosy, the candlelight pooling gold across his jaw and the bare skin at his collar. His hands slide onto your waist, fingers curling into the cotton of your shorts.
“C’mere,” he whispers, even though you’re already stepping into him. You wrap your arms around your neck, and his hands settle on your hips.
You sway to the music as Matt whispers the lyrics into your ear, and it feels like the walls settle. The floor is no longer swept up from under you. The world doesn’t feel so foreign and scary. You can feel your lungs opening up again and your head clearing. Matt holds you, and it’s like everything else melts away. Nothing else matters.
Matt dips his head, nudging your nose with his. “Can I?”
His lips catch yours in a slow, lazy, warm kiss. He hums against your lips, and you can feel him smiling. You smile too. He laughs softly. Your heart finds a steady beat against his chest.
“For the record…” he smirks, licking his lips. “If you ever did leave me and go back to Los Angeles, I would just follow you there and stalk you.”
“Matt, that is so fucking weird.” You giggle.
He shrugs, bottom lip poking out. “It’s not.” He smirks, falters, eyes soft now. “You’re my whole world now; everything would blur if I didn’t have you.”
Your throat tightens–but this time not from fear or guilt.
“Me too,” you breathe. “Me too.”
His arms tighten around you, and you both sway there, in the glow of the cheap candles and a crackling Billy Joel vinyl, and it feels like Pennsylvania is the only place on the planet.
[a/n: don't really even know what this is but i do know i missed writing and wanted to give a little glimpse into their life. apologizing in advance if this is ass i feel rusty. ]
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