Dear, Ex: I'm Not Your Backup and I Deserve More Than This

When someone hurts you for long enough, even kindness feels dangerous.

That was the problem with Elijah.

Not him, exactly but what he made me feel.

Or what I was afraid to feel.

We didn't talk for three days after he brought snacks to my office.

Not because anything was wrong. But because I didn't know what to say.

I had never known a man who could sit with my sadness and not try to fix me, seduce me, or silence me.

And I didn't know how to hold that kind of peace.

I spent the weekend cleaning my apartment. Folding laundry I'd left untouched for weeks. Rewriting an email five times before sending it. Watering my plants even though the leaves had already browned.

I was doing things, but I wasn't living.

I was avoiding.

Avoiding the softness I felt in Elijah's presence.

Avoiding the warmth he placed gently in my chest.

Avoiding the reality that, maybe, I was starting to like him. And not in a passing way.

In a slow, terrifying, real way.

On Sunday afternoon, he texted:

Elijah:

Hey. No pressure, but I'm at the bookstore by the café you like. They're having a poetry reading.

If you're up for it, I saved a seat.

My fingers hovered over the reply button for almost a minute.

You don't owe him anything, I reminded myself.

But I wanted to see him.

So I texted:

Ava:

Give me 15 minutes.

The bookstore smelled like paper and cinnamon.

I spotted Elijah in the second row, a copy of a poetry book resting in his lap, thumb tapping the rhythm of the words being read.

He turned when I entered, gave me a small smile, and patted the seat beside him.

I sat down.

He didn't speak. He didn't try to hold my hand. He just nodded toward the small stage, where a woman was reading softly:

"I want love like kitchen lights at 2 a.m.

Soft. Still on. Even when no one's watching."

I didn't know why that line made me tear up.

But I blinked twice, pressed my palms to my lap, and focused on breathing slowly.

Elijah didn't notice or maybe he did and just didn't say anything.

Which was its own kind of noticing.

After the event, we stepped into the evening air. The sun was fading behind clouds, leaving a golden haze across the sidewalk.

"Thanks for coming," he said quietly.

"I almost didn't."

"Yeah," he nodded. "I figured."

I laughed, nervous. "That obvious?"

"Not obvious. Just... honest."

We walked a few blocks in silence. There was something calming about being around someone who didn't fill quiet with noise.

He stopped near a mural on the side of a bakery. It showed a girl with a watering can, feeding flowers growing out of her own chest.

"I like that one," I said softly.

"Me too," he replied. "It reminds me of you."

I looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

He shrugged. "You don't even realize it, but you've been growing. Quietly. Without applause. Like this mural."

No one had ever described me that way before.

Not even me.

We sat on the bench nearby. He pulled out a small notebook from his bag and flipped through it.

"You sketch a lot?" I asked.

"Every day," he replied. "It's how I process things."

I pointed. "Can I see?"

He handed me the notebook without hesitation.

The pages were full of soft, incomplete drawings. A woman sitting in a window. A pair of hands holding a cup. Someone reading under a streetlamp. A curly-haired figure I recognized immediately.

"Is that... me?"

He looked away, half-smiling. "Yeah. I drew it the day we had lunch in the park."

I stared at the sketch. It wasn't perfect. My features were simple. But the posture my posture looked calm. Peaceful. Like someone finally resting.

"I don't remember looking that peaceful," I whispered.

"You were," he said. "Even if it didn't feel like it."

We sat like that for a while.

And then I said something I didn't plan to.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

He tilted his head, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... you don't even know me that well. And I'm clearly still... messed up."

I tried to smile, but it cracked at the edges.

Elijah leaned back. "Ava, being kind to someone doesn't require a checklist."

"But you don't even know what I've done," I said, voice tight. "What if I'm not who you think I am?"

"I'm not here to define you," he replied gently. "I'm just... here."

That was it. So simple. So soft. So unlike anyone else I'd known.

"I spent years chasing someone who only needed me when it was convenient," I admitted. "He never showed up when I really needed him. But he'd come back when it was safe—for him."

Elijah nodded slowly. "I know what that feels like."

I turned toward him. "You do?"

"Yeah," he said. "Not in the same way. But I've had people in my life who only reached for me when they needed comfort. Not connection."

I swallowed. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"That I'll fall into another situation where I matter... until I don't."

His voice was almost a whisper. "Then let's not rush into anything you're unsure about."

"But what if I mess it up anyway?"

"Then we'll be honest about it. That's all I ask."

We sat in silence again. But this time, it felt less heavy.

Like sitting at the edge of a pool, feet in the water, not ready to dive but not leaving, either.

He looked at me and asked, "Can I walk you home?"

I hesitated.

"Yes. But not inside."

"Of course," he nodded. "No pressure."

We walked side by side. Our fingers brushed once or twice, but neither of us grabbed the other's hand.

Outside my door, I turned to him.

"Thank you. For today. And the snacks. And the silence."

He smiled. "Thank you for showing up."

And then, without asking, he pulled something from his bag a folded page torn from his sketchbook.

It was the drawing of me. The peaceful one.

He handed it to me.

"I thought maybe you needed a reminder," he said. "Of how you look when you're safe."

That night, I placed the sketch on my bedside table.

And for the first time in a long time, I slept without headphones. Without white noise. Without fear.

Journal Entry – Ava's voice

"Don't run from what's gentle.

Sometimes peace feels strange because you've lived in noise too long.

But you deserve quiet that doesn't hurt.

And love that doesn't ask you to bleed to feel seen."