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I said I wanted certainty, but when I was having my first-ever panic attack, certain that I was dying, you said you’d come get me, and I didn’t stop you because, before you even offered, your name was what I was gasping for instead of the guy who, minutes earlier, had basically proposed, saying he knew the moment he saw me that I was his wife and that he would prove it if I would just give him a chance.
That night, after the storm had passed, as you stroked my hair ever so gently, something compelled you to ask if I didn’t feel safe with you, and I replied that the problem was that I did. The problem was that I didn’t want to, because what I wanted was certainty.
So instead, I should have felt safe with that other guy, who checked all the boxes, and promised me pure devotion, patience, and a future full of conviction and security. Instead, I ran from him and into your arms, and now I’m wondering what that says about me.
These days, I don’t trust my own judgment. What is the well, and what is a cup?
The morning after, you asked if I could please make space for the unknown. To resist the urge to control the present and the future, and to let what’s between us unfold naturally—honestly—instead of constantly steering us off a cliff.
And what do I say to that? To you, who had just driven an hour through a typhoon, who told me to breathe because you’ve got me and it would all be fine, who dropped everything to clean up my flooded apartment, feed me, brush my hair, and hold me through the worst of times?
These days, all there are are questions. What is the well, and what is a cup? By the time I know for certain, will I have been drunk up?*
