He knew he didn’t “belong” to her. That it was weird and creepy and kind of pathetic to think it that way, even if he never said it out loud.
But… “belonging to her” was the only way he felt fit the feeling. The mental shield in his mind that protected him from the constant worrying, constant self justification, constant shame.
He didn’t belong to himself, he never had, so it didn’t feel suffocating, if anything, he felt more free. All he had to worry about was if she was happy with him, no one else. Not even himself.
And she wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met before.
If she asked, he would fall at her feet before she even finished her sentence. And he would do it happily, because never in his life had he trusted anyone so deeply. She’d never done anything to hurt him, why should he doubt her?
And at night, when he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about all the ways he fell short of who he should be, he thought of her. If he was good enough for her, that was all he needed. He could always be better, of course, but her approval was like a safety net between him and rock bottom.
He wanted to be hers, to follow a half step behind her for the rest of his life, if she’d have him.
