Taylor went on, voice low and unguarded. “You changed me in ways I didn’t even know were necessary. You made me see the city I live in. The work people do. The lies I told myself about what mattered. You stood in my kitchen and argued with me and called me out and kept going when your body was fighting you, and every day I respected you more until respect turned into something that made me afraid all the time.” He laughed shakily once. “I’m still afraid, actually. I think maybe that’s part of it.”
Maya tried to speak. Failed. He squeezed her hand.
“I love you,” he said. “Not the narrative. Not the transformation everyone else can see. You. The woman who told me my home looked emotionally upholstered. The woman who cries when little boys at the center get decent winter coats because she knows what neglect looks like in receipts and skin. The woman who thinks she needs no one while making everyone around her braver.” His eyes filled again, but he kept looking at her. “If you tell me no, I’ll deserve it. But if there is any part of you that believes me, I am asking for the rest of your life.”
