Beneath the Skin
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 6,636
The mug slipped from Anita’s hand, shattering against the kitchen floor in an explosion of ceramic and dark liquid. She cursed under her breath, her wrist throbbing as though tiny needles had embedded themselves deep into the joint. Coffee seeped into the grout lines, forming little brown rivers that branched out like veins.
Her body felt glued together with glass, every movement threatening to break her apart. She crouched awkwardly, ignoring the shooting pain in her knees, and grabbed a rag from the sink. As she wiped the mess, her fingers betrayed her, trembling until she dropped the rag into the puddle.
“Dammit.”
The word came out as a whisper, as though the walls might reprimand her for saying it out loud. She leaned back against the cabinet, her breath uneven. Moments like this had become routine, her body’s quiet rebellion against even the simplest tasks.
Her eyes drifted to the window above the sink. Outside, the world looked so normal—trees swaying gently in the late autumn breeze, sunlight spilling golden over the rooftops. Kids rode their bikes down the street, their laughter cutting through the stillness.
Inside, her world felt stagnant.
The phone on the counter buzzed, startling her. She glanced at it but didn’t move. It buzzed again. Slowly, she pulled herself up, using the counter for support, and grabbed the phone. Gloria.
She hesitated, watching the screen light up and dim with her mother’s persistence. On the third buzz, it stopped, replaced by a voicemail notification.
Anita sighed. She didn’t need to listen to know what it said. Her mother’s messages were always the same—a mixture of love, worry, and a touch of smothering that made Anita’s chest tighten. She would call back later. Maybe.
Turning away from the phone, her gaze landed on the windowsill where her paintbrushes sat in an old jar. Their bristles were stiff with dried paint, their once-bright handles faded and dusty. Her stomach twisted as she looked at them.
She hadn’t painted in over two years. Not since the diagnosis.
***
It had started with an ache in her joints that wouldn’t go away. Then came the fatigue, a crushing exhaustion that made her feel like she was sinking into the earth. But the rash on her cheeks was the final blow—a red, butterfly-shaped brand that spread across her face like a cruel reminder she couldn’t hide.
The doctor’s words had been clinical, rehearsed: “You have lupus, an autoimmune disease. It’s chronic, but manageable.”
Manageable.
No one had prepared her for the weight of that word. The endless pills, the flare-ups that came without warning, the isolation. “Chronic” meant forever, and forever felt like a death sentence.
Anita shook off the memory and turned back to the mess on the floor. She grabbed the rag again, wringing it out before scrubbing at the coffee stains. Her wrist protested with each motion, the pain shooting up her arm. She gritted her teeth and kept going until the floor was clean.
By the time she finished, she was too exhausted to even think about dinner. She sank into the chair by the window, staring at the paintbrushes again. They seemed to mock her, a reminder of the person she used to be.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t her mother.
Miles.
The name hit her like a punch to the chest. She hadn’t spoken to him in nearly two years. Not since everything had fallen apart.
“Hey, it’s Miles. I know it’s been a while, but I was thinking about you. How are you doing?”
She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. The memory of their last conversation surfaced unbidden. She’d been in the hospital after a particularly bad flare. He had visited once, sitting awkwardly by her bedside, his hands in his lap.
“I don’t know what to say,” he’d admitted. “This is… a lot.”
She had nodded, understanding what he didn’t say. It was a lot. Too much. He hadn’t come back.
Now, two years later, here he was, popping back into her life like nothing had happened.
She typed a response, deleted it, then typed another. Finally, she settled on something neutral.
“I’m okay. Taking things one day at a time.”
She hesitated before pressing send. Was that even true?
***
The reply came quickly, the soft buzz of the phone breaking the stillness.
“Glad to hear that. I know I don’t deserve to just pop up like this, but I’ve missed you, Anita. If you ever want to talk or hang out, I’m here.”
Anita stared at the message. Missed me? The words hit her wrong, like a scratchy sweater she couldn’t pull off. Anger bubbled beneath her exhaustion, sharp and biting.
Where had he been when she needed someone to drive her to appointments? When she sat alone in waiting rooms, shivering in one of those thin paper gowns? When even getting out of bed felt like scaling a mountain?
Her finger hovered over the delete button, but something stopped her. Instead, she placed the phone face-down on the table, as though that would silence the storm churning inside her.
She tried to focus on anything else—the ticking of the kitchen clock, the faint hum of the refrigerator. But her gaze kept drifting back to the brushes.
***
The next morning, Anita woke to the sound of her phone vibrating against the nightstand. Sunlight poured through the blinds, carving streaks of gold across the room.
“Hello?” Her voice cracked as she answered.
“Good morning, baby.” Her mother’s voice was warm, but Anita could hear the tension beneath it. “Did you get my message?”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t call back.”
“I meant to, Mom. I just…” She trailed off, staring at the ceiling. She could picture Gloria sitting at the kitchen table, her coffee untouched, her brow furrowed with worry.
“You just what?” Gloria’s tone softened. “I’m not mad, Anita. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
A beat of silence.
“Baby,” her mother said gently, “you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
Anita closed her eyes, the lump in her throat making it hard to breathe. Gloria always had a way of cutting through her defenses, seeing the truth she tried so hard to hide.
“I know,” she whispered.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Finally, Gloria broke it.
“I made some gumbo last night. I’ll bring you a bowl later.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Don’t thank me. Just eat it.” Gloria’s voice brightened, and Anita could hear the smile in her words. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ended, Anita stayed in bed, staring at the phone in her hand. Miles’ message from the night before still sat unanswered.
***
By mid-afternoon, the smell of Gloria’s gumbo filled the kitchen. Anita leaned against the counter, her wrist wrapped in a heating pad as she stirred the pot. It was a small comfort, the warmth seeping into her skin.
The paintbrushes still sat on the windowsill, catching her eye every time she turned.
Finally, she grabbed one.
The wood was cool against her fingers, the dried paint rough and uneven. She ran her thumb over the bristles, half-expecting them to crumble. Her grip tightened, her wrist twinging in protest, but she ignored it.
From the closet, she pulled out an old sketchbook. The pages were yellowed at the edges, the cover speckled with paint. She opened it to a blank page, the sound of the spine cracking loud in the quiet kitchen.
Her first stroke was hesitant, a shaky line of pale blue that barely clung to the paper. She stared at it, unsure what to do next. Her hand hovered over the page, the brush poised, but no inspiration came.
What’s the point?
She set the brush down and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. The kitchen felt too quiet, too empty. She grabbed her phone without thinking, opening the message from Miles.
“I don’t know if I can just pick up where we left off,” she typed. “Things are different now. I’m different.”
She hit send before she could overthink it.
The reply came quickly.
“I know. But I want to get to know who you are now. If you’ll let me.”
Anita read the message twice, her chest tightening. She didn’t trust it—not entirely—but there was something in his words that made her pause. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was loneliness. Or maybe it was something else entirely.
Her hand brushed against the sketchbook. She picked up the brush again, this time dipping it into a deeper color—a bold red.
The line she painted was smoother, more deliberate. She didn’t know what she was making, but the act of creating felt like a small victory.
Her wrist ached, her body tired, but she kept going.
***
The knock on Anita’s door came early that evening, sharp and deliberate, like the person on the other side had something important to say. She hesitated, staring at the door as if it might open on its own.
Miles had texted earlier: “Can I stop by? Just to talk.”
Her immediate instinct had been to say no, to put up the wall she’d been leaning on for years. But something in her chest—a flicker of anger or curiosity, she wasn’t sure which—made her reply with a short: “Fine.”
Now, standing frozen in the living room, she questioned that decision.
The knock came again.
Anita pulled the door open, the chain still in place. Miles stood on the other side, his familiar frame silhouetted against the fading light. He was taller than she remembered, or maybe just broader. His hoodie hung loosely over his shoulders, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets.
“Hey,” he said, his voice softer than she expected.
She didn’t respond, her eyes scanning his face for something—regret, guilt, anything.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She hesitated before closing the door just enough to unlatch the chain, then opened it wide.
The last time Miles had been in her apartment, it had been different—filled with light, her art on every wall, laughter echoing between them. Now it felt like a stranger’s space, dim and hollow, with bare walls and an air of neglect.
He stepped inside, glancing around. “It’s been a while.”
“You think?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, but she didn’t apologize.
He nodded, letting the weight of her words settle. “Yeah. I deserve that.”
Anita crossed her arms, leaning against the back of the couch. “Why are you here, Miles? What do you want?”
He hesitated, his hands fidgeting in his pockets. “I wanted to see you. To explain.”
Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “Explain what? That you left when things got hard? That you disappeared when I needed you the most?”
“I didn’t know how to handle it,” he said, his voice tight. “You were going through so much, and I—”
“You what? Got scared? Felt overwhelmed?” She shook her head, her anger rising like a wave. “Do you think I wasn’t scared? Do you think I wasn’t overwhelmed? But I didn’t get to leave, Miles. I had to stay and deal with it. Alone.”
He flinched, her words hitting their mark.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“Sorry doesn’t change anything,” she snapped. “You don’t just get to walk back in here and act like everything’s fine.”
“I’m not trying to act like that,” he said, stepping closer. “I know I messed up, Anita. I know I hurt you. But I’ve been thinking about you every day since I left.”
“Thinking about me?” She scoffed. “That’s supposed to make me feel better? You don’t get points for feeling guilty, Miles.”
He looked down, his jaw tightening. “You’re right. I don’t. But I still care about you. And I hate myself for leaving. I just… I didn’t know how to help.”
“I didn’t need you to help,” she said, her voice breaking. “I just needed you to stay.”
The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging between them. Miles looked at her, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite name. Regret? Sadness? Love?
“I’m here now,” he said finally.
She laughed again, but this time it was softer, tinged with exhaustion. “Yeah. You’re here now. Great timing.”
“I know I don’t deserve another chance,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m asking for one anyway.”
Anita looked at him, her arms tightening around herself. Part of her wanted to scream at him, to push him out the door and lock it behind him. But another part—the part that still remembered the way he used to make her laugh, the way he used to look at her like she was the only person in the world—hesitated.
Her eyes flickered to the sketchbook on the table, the faint lines of blue and red visible from where she stood.
“You don’t get to walk back in and fix this with words,” she said finally. “It’s going to take more than that.”
“I know,” he said.
She took a deep breath, her chest tight. “If you want a chance, Miles, you’re going to have to prove it. And I’m not going to make it easy.”
“I don’t expect it to be easy,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Good,” she said, turning toward the kitchen. “Because I’m still mad at you.”
“Fair enough,” he said, following her.
As she grabbed two bowls from the cabinet, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you still like gumbo?”
His smile widened. “I thought you’d never ask.”
***
Anita set the bowls of gumbo on the small kitchen table, the steam curling into the air between them. Miles slid into the chair across from her, his movements careful, as if he were afraid of disturbing some fragile balance.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she sat down, her spoon poised over her bowl. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence filled with the soft clink of metal against ceramic.
“So,” she said finally, breaking the quiet. “What have you been up to for the past two years?”
Miles swallowed a spoonful of gumbo, his gaze fixed on the table. “Working. Thinking about how badly I screwed up.”
Anita arched an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”
He sighed, setting his spoon down. “I’ve been trying to figure myself out. I started therapy last year.”
Her spoon paused mid-air. “Therapy?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, his fingers tapping nervously against the table. “I realized I had a lot of stuff I hadn’t dealt with—stuff from my past, stuff about us. I didn’t know how to show up for you, and that’s on me. I let my fear get in the way.”
Anita leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Fear of what?”
“Of failing you. Of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. I didn’t want to make things worse, so I just… didn’t do anything.”
She stared at him, her emotions a storm of anger, sadness, and something she wasn’t ready to name. “You know how selfish that sounds, right?”
“I do,” he admitted, his voice steady. “And I hate myself for it. But I’ve learned a lot since then. About myself, about what it means to support someone. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying to be better.”
She didn’t respond right away, her gaze dropping to the table. The anger that had fueled her for so long was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. Maybe it was because she could see the effort in his eyes, the weight he carried.
“Therapy, huh?” she said, her tone softening just a fraction. “What’s that like?”
He smiled slightly. “Hard. Messy. But worth it. My therapist doesn’t let me get away with any of my usual crap.”
Anita smirked despite herself. “Good. Someone needs to keep you in line.”
They fell into a tentative rhythm after that, the conversation flowing more easily than she expected. They talked about the little things—work, the news, even a funny story about a dog Miles had seen at the park.
For a moment, it almost felt like old times.
But the weight of their shared history lingered, unspoken but present.
***
After dinner, Anita leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed as she watched Miles rinse the dishes.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I want to,” he replied, glancing at her with a small smile.
She rolled her eyes but didn’t stop him.
As he finished and turned off the tap, he dried his hands on a dish towel and turned to face her. “Thanks for letting me stay tonight. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t,” she admitted.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he added, his expression earnest. “I want to prove to you that I’m serious about this. About being here for you.”
Anita studied him, her heart warring with her head. “You don’t get to prove it with words, Miles. Actions. That’s what matters.”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “And I’m ready to do the work, no matter how long it takes.”
For the first time in years, she saw a flicker of the man she used to love—the man who had once been her partner, her safe place. But the wounds he’d left behind were deep, and trust wouldn’t come easily.
“I guess we’ll see,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with both hope and caution.
He nodded, understanding the layers in her words. “I’ll take whatever chance you give me, Anita. No matter how small.”
***
That night, after Miles left, Anita sat at her kitchen table, the sketchbook open in front of her. She picked up her brush and dipped it into a pot of deep indigo paint, the color rich and full of promise.
Her strokes were slow and deliberate, the lines forming shapes she hadn’t envisioned but felt right as they emerged. The act of painting felt like stitching something back together—not just the page, but herself.
She didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of something she thought she’d lost: possibility.
And for now, that was enough.
***
The first sign was always the heat, creeping up her wrists and elbows like invisible fire. By the time Anita woke, the ache had spread to her shoulders, a deep, grinding pain that no amount of stretching could shake. Her joints felt swollen, even though they didn’t look much different.
She rolled onto her side, staring at the sunlight pooling on the far wall. Morning light usually brought a soft kind of hope, but today it felt like a cruel joke. Her body was already screaming, and the day hadn’t even begun.
Pulling herself upright was a struggle, her muscles stiff and unwilling. She winced as her knees protested the motion, the sound of her own breath louder than she wanted it to be.
“You got this,” she muttered under her breath. It was a lie, but saying it aloud made it feel less like one.
In the bathroom, she stared at her reflection, her fingers trembling as she turned on the faucet. The warm water felt good against her hands, but it couldn’t undo the tightness in her wrists.
Her face looked tired—more tired than usual. Dark circles sat heavy beneath her eyes, and her skin had the pale, waxy look she hated. She reached for her moisturizer but knocked it off the counter instead, the bottle clattering to the floor.
“Damn it,” she hissed, bending down to pick it up. The movement sent a sharp jolt through her back, and she froze, her breath catching in her throat.
The lupus flare had arrived, and it wasn’t going to let her forget it.
***
By noon, Anita had managed to settle herself on the couch, a heating pad draped over her knees and her body wrapped in the softest blanket she could find. The remote sat beside her, untouched. Watching TV felt like too much effort.
Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her therapist had taught her that—said it would help with the stress, which sometimes made the pain worse.
The sound of her phone buzzing pulled her out of her haze. She reached for it slowly, every motion calculated to avoid sending another wave of pain through her body.
Mom: How are you feeling today, baby? Want me to bring something by?
Anita stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. She hated admitting how bad it was. Hated feeling like a burden.
Me: Not great. If you’re already out, soup would be nice.
The reply came quickly.
Mom: Already on my way.
Anita set the phone down, her heart heavy. Gloria meant well—she always did—but accepting help felt like conceding defeat. And Anita hated losing to her own body.
***
Later that evening, the doorbell rang. When Anita opened the door, Gloria stood there, holding a plastic bag in one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other.
“I thought these might cheer you up,” Gloria said, handing her the flowers.
Anita smiled despite herself. “Thanks, Mom.”
Gloria stepped inside, setting the bag on the counter. “How bad is it?”
Anita hesitated, then gestured toward the couch. “You can see for yourself.”
Gloria followed her gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. She walked over and gently touched Anita’s hand, her fingers brushing over the heating pad. “You should’ve called me sooner.”
“I’m fine,” Anita said, her voice unconvincing even to herself.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Gloria said, sitting beside her. “It’s okay to need help, Anita. It doesn’t make you weak.”
Anita swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. “It just feels like… like I’m fighting my own body. Like it’s me against me.”
Gloria nodded, her expression softening. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. But you’re not fighting alone. You’ve got me. You’ve got Miles, if you let him stick around. You’ve got people who care about you.”
Anita leaned her head back against the couch, her eyes closing. The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but Gloria’s presence made it feel a little less overwhelming.
“Thanks, Mom,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For always showing up.”
Gloria smiled, her hand warm against Anita’s. “That’s what we do. We show up for the people we love.”
As the evening stretched on, the two of them sat together, the quiet between them filled with an unspoken understanding. For the first time all day, Anita felt a flicker of relief—not from the pain, but from the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in facing it.
***
The following week, the flare hadn’t fully loosened its grip on Anita, but she pushed through as best she could. There were deadlines to meet, bills to pay, and no time for her body’s rebellion.
Miles had been texting every couple of days, nothing too heavy—checking in, asking if she needed anything. He didn’t push, and for that, she was grateful. But part of her was waiting for him to stumble, to disappear again like he had before.
So when he knocked on her door that Saturday afternoon, she wasn’t sure whether to feel surprised or suspicious.
“Hey,” he said as she opened the door. He held up a brown paper bag. “Thought you might want some company. And tacos.”
She smirked despite herself. “You’re lucky I like tacos.”
“I know,” he said with a grin, stepping inside.
As he unpacked the food onto the coffee table, Anita settled onto the couch, her movements careful and deliberate. The pain wasn’t as bad as it had been earlier in the week, but it still hummed under her skin like a constant reminder.
Miles handed her a plate, his eyes flicking to her hands. “How are you feeling?”
She shrugged, biting into her taco to avoid answering. He didn’t press, which was another point in his favor.
They ate in relative silence, the occasional crunch of tortillas or rustle of paper filling the gaps. But Anita could feel the weight of Miles’ gaze, his concern like a tangible thing between them.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said finally, setting her plate down.
“Do what?”
“Play nurse. Act like you care.” Her voice was sharper than she intended, and she winced, both from the words and the look on his face.
“I’m not acting,” he said quietly.
Anita sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s just… I’ve been here before, Miles. With you. And I don’t know if I can trust that you’ll stay this time.”
He leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “I get that. And I know I don’t have the best track record. But I’m here now, Anita. I’m not going anywhere.”
She studied him, searching for cracks in his armor. “You say that, but what happens when it gets hard again? When I’m in pain, or too tired to do anything but exist? Are you still going to show up?”
His jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I can’t promise I’ll never mess up. But I can promise I’ll try. Every day. Because you’re worth it.”
The sincerity in his voice was disarming, and for a moment, Anita felt the walls around her heart tremble.
But trust wasn’t something she could give freely anymore.
“You’ve got a lot to prove,” she said, her tone softer but still firm.
“I know,” he said.
***
The next few weeks were a cautious dance between them. Miles stopped by every few days, sometimes with groceries, other times with takeout or a bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked up at a roadside stand.
Anita let him in but kept her guard up. She accepted his help when she needed it but refused to let him get too comfortable.
One evening, as they sat on the couch watching a documentary about street artists, Miles reached for her sketchbook.
“Can I?” he asked, his hand hovering over the worn leather cover.
She hesitated, then nodded.
He flipped through the pages slowly, his eyes lingering on each piece. “These are incredible, Anita. You’ve got such a unique style.”
“Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.
He paused on a half-finished painting of a woman’s hands, the knuckles swollen and red. The brushstrokes were raw and unflinching, capturing both the pain and the resilience.
“Is this…?” he began, glancing at her.
“Yeah,” she said, her gaze fixed on the screen. “It’s me.”
Miles closed the sketchbook gently, setting it back on the table. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know. I’m here.”
Anita looked at him, her defenses wavering. “I’ve heard that before.”
“I mean it,” he said, his voice steady. “And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
She didn’t say a word, her thoughts too tangled to unravel. But later, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his words echoed in her mind.
Maybe—just maybe—he really did mean it this
***
The days blurred together in a haze of pain and cautious optimism. Anita's mornings were dictated by her body—whether her knees would allow her to climb out of bed, whether her hands would cooperate enough to hold a brush. Her lupus was a constant companion, one she resented but had no choice but to live with.
The evenings, though, belonged to her thoughts. And lately, those thoughts were tangled up with Miles.
She’d never been good at trusting people, not fully. Even before the lupus, she’d kept parts of herself locked away, afraid of being too vulnerable, too exposed. And after Miles had left the first time, that instinct had only grown stronger.
But now, as she sat in her tiny studio apartment surrounded by half-finished canvases, she couldn’t ignore the small flicker of hope he’d reignited.
“Why now?” She whispered to herself, the words heavy in the quiet.
Why had he come back? Why was he trying so hard?
Her sketchbook lay open on the coffee table, a fresh page beckoning her. She reached for a pencil, the familiar weight of it grounding her. Her hand shook slightly as she began to draw—light strokes that gradually took form.
It was a woman, her features shadowed, her hands outstretched. One palm held a flame, small but bright, while the other cradled a broken mirror. The reflection in the shards was distorted, but there was something unmistakably vulnerable about the image.
Anita stared at the sketch, her chest tightening.
She recognized herself in it—the part of her that wanted to believe in second chances, and the part that couldn’t forget the cracks left behind.
***
A week later, the flare finally loosened its grip, and Anita found herself in the park with her sketchbook. The autumn air was crisp, the leaves a multitude of gold and crimson. She sat on a bench near the pond, the sound of ducks splashing providing a soothing backdrop.
Her pencil moved across the page, sketching the twised branches of a nearby tree. Each twist and knot felt like a metaphor for her own body—strong but weathered, scarred but still standing.
“You always find the prettiest spots,” a familiar voice said.
Anita glanced up to see Miles standing a few feet away, a cup of coffee in each hand.
“I didn’t invite you,” she said, though her tone lacked its usual bite.
He grinned, holding out one of the cups. “Figured I’d take my chances.”
She took the coffee, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”
“Comes with the territory,” he said, sitting beside her.
They fell into an easy silence, the kind that didn’t demand anything. Miles watched her sketch, his presence surprisingly unobtrusive.
“Do you ever wish things were different?” he asked suddenly.
Anita paused, her pencil hovering above the page. “You mean, do I wish I didn’t have lupus?”
He nodded.
“Of course I do,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I wish I could wake up without wondering how much my body’s going to betray me that day. I wish I didn’t have to think about every step I take, every piece of food I eat, every minute of sleep I get. But wishing doesn’t change anything.”
Miles looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re stronger than I think I’d be.”
She laughed, though there was no humor in it. “Strength has nothing to do with it. You just survive because you don’t have a choice.”
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of her words settling between them.
“Do you ever wish we were different?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
Anita turned to him, her heart tightening. “I don’t know. Maybe. But wishing doesn’t change that either.”
His gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, he looked like a man carrying the world’s regrets on his shoulders.
“I’m trying, Anita,” he said finally. “I know I’ve messed up. I know I have a lot to prove. But I want to be here. For you.”
Her chest ached, but it wasn’t from her lupus this time. It was from the rawness in his voice, the vulnerability he rarely showed.
“I want to believe you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m scared, Miles. Scared of letting you in again and watching you walk away when things get hard.”
He reached for her hand, his touch warm against her cold fingers. “Then let me prove it. One day at a time.”
She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t respond either.
Instead, she looked out at the pond, her thoughts swirling like the ripples on the water. Trust wasn’t something that could be given—it had to be earned.
But for the first time, she thought maybe—just maybe—she was willing to let him try.
***
It had been three months since Anita had let Miles back into her life, and she was starting to understand what it meant to trust again. The lupus flares still came—uninvited, unpredictable—but they were becoming less frequent, less severe. Some days, her body was simply tired. Other days, it felt like she could conquer the world. But no matter how much her body resisted, she no longer felt entirely alone in the struggle.
Today, the flare was small, a dull ache in her wrists and knees, the kind that made everything feel slightly out of reach. But she had learned to work with it. To pace herself.
The morning had slipped by with her lost in the rhythm of her paintbrush. Her studio was still messy, scattered with half-finished canvases and sketchbooks. But the artwork—it was changing. It was becoming less about the fight and more about finding beauty in the cracks.
Anita paused to stretch her neck, feeling the tension loosen as she glanced at her latest piece. It was a woman—her likeness, but not quite. The face was turned away, shrouded in shadows, but the hands were open, delicate and confident, cradling a glowing light. It felt like a breakthrough.
I’m finally letting go, she thought, exhaling slowly. The weight of the thought hung in the air for a moment before it sank into her bones.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she called, not looking away from her painting.
The door creaked open, and she heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps. “I bring offerings,” Miles said with a playful tone, stepping inside with a bouquet of daisies and a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.
She turned, a genuine smile tugging at her lips despite the fatigue. “You spoil me,” she said, accepting the flowers. The scent of fresh daisies mingled with the faint smell of paint and turpentine.
Miles placed the coffee on the small table beside her, his eyes scanning the room before landing on her canvas. “This one’s different,” he said, walking closer. “You’ve moved away from the dark.”
Anita studied the painting for a moment, as if it could reveal something she had missed. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s still there, though. You can’t erase the shadows. But you can let the light in.”
He smiled, his gaze softening. “I like that.”
They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t feel heavy. He sipped his coffee, watching her work. The air between them was quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said finally, setting his cup down.
Anita didn’t look up from her painting, but her hand paused mid-stroke. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
She glanced at him, her lips tight. “About how I’m not as sure of everything as I want to be.”
He didn’t respond immediately, giving her space. Instead, he simply watched her, his eyes gentle.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, her voice quieter. “I don’t know how to trust. How to let myself be… happy, without waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Miles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her with a sincerity that almost made her want to look away. “I get it. You’ve been hurt, and it’s hard to just forget about it. But I’m not asking you to. I’m asking for a chance to prove that I’m not going anywhere.”
Anita swallowed hard, trying to push down the knot in her throat. She had heard those words before, from him and from others, but it had never been so hard to believe. She could feel the weight of her past pulling at her, reminding her of all the times she had trusted, only to be left behind.
But Miles... Miles had kept showing up. Slowly, steadily, like a constant force in the midst of her chaos. She couldn’t ignore it anymore.
“I don’t want to need anyone,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to need you.”
The confession hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability.
Miles reached out, placing his hand gently on hers. “I don’t want you to need me, Anita. I want you to want me. But I’ll be here regardless. I’ll be here whether you need me or not.”
She felt the rawness of his words, his hand warm against hers. She had spent so many years pushing people away, afraid of what might happen if she let them in, afraid of what it would mean if they saw her too clearly. But now, with his hand in hers, she realized she had been wrong.
“I’m trying,” she said softly. “But it’s so hard to let go of the fear.”
“You don’t have to let go of everything,” Miles replied. “You can still hold on to the parts of you that need protection. But let me be part of that protection. Let me show you that you can trust me.”
She looked at him, her chest tight, the battle between her heart and her fear waging war inside her. He had shown up for her when no one else had. He had stayed when she hadn’t known how to ask for help.
“I’m scared, Miles,” she whispered. “Scared of loving and getting hurt again. Scared of letting someone see all the broken pieces of me.”
He squeezed her hand, his voice steady. “I’ve seen your broken pieces, Anita. I’ve seen them, and I’m not running away. I’ll be here, and I’ll love you through it, no matter what. Even when you don’t believe you deserve it.”
Her breath caught, the weight of his words sinking into her. For the first time, she felt a shift inside—a small, imperceptible crack in the armor she had built around herself. She had spent so much of her life pretending that she was fine, pretending that she didn’t need anyone, pretending that her pain didn’t exist. But with Miles here, standing beside her, his words a promise, she realized that she didn’t have to pretend anymore.
“I’m not perfect, you know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll never be perfect.”
He smiled softly, his thumb brushing against her hand. “You don’t have to be.”
The tenderness in his voice was everything she needed to hear, but hadn’t allowed herself to believe. She had spent so much of her life measuring her worth by her pain, by the parts of her that didn’t fit into the world’s idea of perfection. But now, with Miles there, with the space they had created between them, she felt something else begin to grow. Something softer.
“I think I’m ready,” she said, her words tentative but sure. “Ready to trust you. Ready to let you in.”
Miles leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Anita closed her eyes, feeling the tension in her body begin to unravel. She wasn’t sure how this story would end, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid to find out.
As she turned back to the canvas, her brush moving fluidly across the surface, she saw the painting begin to take shape—light mingling with shadow, softness blending with strength. It was imperfect, but it was beautiful. Just like her.
And this time, she wasn’t alone in it.
