So I’m supposed to be this badass who can totally hold her own because I’ve worked so hard to get here. I’m supposed to be powerful and sharp. I’m supposed to be strong and be a fighter. In my weak moments, I’m supposed to be tough enough to pick myself back up. I’m supposed to cheer myself on. I shouldn’t need to turn to anyone. And how dare I ask the universe to provide me someone, with that anyone. But God, do I want to.
Exhaustion doesn’t even describe what I’m experiencing and I can feel the farthest walls of my mind cracking. It’s becoming so hard to keep from breaking. I know that I’m gonna break one day, all the little pieces of me are going to fall and it’s gonna hurt like words can’t even describe.
I’m not afraid of falling. I’m not afraid of the bruises or scars that I’ll find or how fast gravity is going to pull me. I’m not afraid of how hurt I’ll be or how long it’ll take to recover. I’m afraid that I’m still supposed to, no, I’m still expected to be strong enough to get up and keep walking. I can’t ask someone to hold me. It seems like I’d be asking for the world if I did that, like I’d be asking for so much. I’m not supposed to need someone to hold me.
But I just want to be held.
As I sit on the cold wooden floor, my head in my lap as I hug my knees, the world gets so dark. And there’s no light to guide me toward a direction out. No escape hatch, no emergency exit; nothing to grasp. Black. For a split second, it’s comforting to be devoid of anything that makes me feel. A way to exist without armor. It feels like the world doesn’t need me, no one I know needs me, that I don’t need me.
The solution comes to me so easily.
Then, I hear the pat pat pat pat of little feet. And the jingling of light metals against each other. I slowly lift my tear-filled eyes and slightly shake the hair out of my face to find two brown eyes staring at me.
“Hi Tumble,” I whisper. “Hello there best friend,” he licks.
And I remember that this little guy needs me. This whole, tiny little world of a being would miss me. He’d lay next to door waiting for it to open, to be greeted by everyone else but the one he’s waiting for. He’d look up at my bed for hours waiting for hands to pick up him and place him next to warmth. He’d lay next to the couch and wait for me to scoop him up and smell his paws. No one loves the Tostitos chips smell of his paws like his friend does. As I fall into a slumber, I remember I’m the someone he asked for when he thought he had no one.