Chapter Text
asked once:
do you love him?
friend, companion, the answer to your question, you… love him.
you love him, dear Caleb Widogast, and what’s best is, he understands.
it would be… silly, at this point, to deny the thread of indelible connection so blistering and brumal and trussed taut between you that it can incidentally be shortnamed as ‘love’. but that wondrously frigid tether, intangible yet tangled, it is but a part in the expansive tapestry housed by your ribs.
he is not your everything, but you love him. so then, you ask yourself, why?
why must this all be so hard? well, it doesn’t have to be.
for the time being, the garden in your chest no longer flowers, instead teeming with tender green fruit.
free birdsong serenades you, celebrating your cultivation.
familiar steps sound just past the garden wall; so very glad, you dare a peek.
you do care, dearly, both for and about him, so you do let him love you.
you bask in his touch. you no longer shy from his stare.
sky-wide and welcoming, shining in kind crescents, an outstretched hand cleaned of rich earth…
he tips your hat for a kiss over the fence, fresh citrus in his teasing smile; a sunrise, he cannot stay, not forever.
through garden gate, through cottage threshold, he passes on by and takes your heart with him, inside to where your gathered friends now await.
even with all this, still you wonder:
are you in love with him? are you in love with him?
perhaps you can’t know for certain.
but this unsated curiosity is not an admittance of defeat, rather, an acceptance that some things won’t make clear sense- at least, when seen under scrutiny.
thus, you stand back, breathe in, and there it is: the whole picture; your weaving, your beans, your place of belonging- all framed precious in just the right light.
so who knows. maybe the future holds further answers, new satisfactions and new views and new truths. now though, you dust yourself and step forth into your shared chosen present; grasping your friends’ hands, you settle right to embrace whatever’s next.
should you feel need or doubt, the door is forever open; you can always restart, replant, pick your words different, weave a new tale all your own.
through it all, one thought’s assured.
with your reasons to begin again cherished close, you won’t wade your bleak mires alone.