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Loving Tommy Shelby wasn’t for the weak. It wasn’t for the soft. Unfortunately, I was both.
I knew the kind of man he was. I knew what I was getting into. Still, I stepped into the wolf’s mouth.
I remember the way he looked at me when we first met. I was singing at the Garrison. He was in a shadowed corner, watching. His eyes burned with something — I could swear it was love. Mine did too, I promise.
At night, he called me angel while my dress slipped off my shoulders. By daylight, he shut the door. He shut his heart. And he shut me out.
He’d disappear for days, and I spent them wondering if he was dead. Still, when he came home drunk at 3 a.m., I opened the door. Still, I bandaged his knuckles. Still, I made tea he never drank.
Every time, I hoped he’d say, “I missed you.” Every time, he’d only say, “Don’t go near the center for a while.”
I knew he loved me, but his love always tasted like orders, like a boundary, like war.
He didn’t need to raise his voice. He never had to. Just eight words: “If you love me, do as I say.” And I did.
I would clean the blood off his hands and face, never receiving an answer when I asked what happened — or when I asked if he wanted me to stay. Just a nod, and silence.
“You okay?” I asked bringing him his glass of whiskey. He said nothing, his eyes on the newspaper. I turned to leave the room, and then he casually said, “I’m your man. You don’t have to worry.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. I just wished he knew that the way he said it made it feel like he was just saying it out of routine, not like something that meant as much as it should.
“You’re too good for me,” he said, his cold hand caressing my cheek. His heart beating fast, but with sadness in his eyes.
So if I’m an angel, then he’s a god. If he’s a god, then he has the power to destroy and rebuild me every time.
“You’re the only thing I don’t have to fight for,” he said, kissing me before slipping out the door again.
He does.
“You always come back,” he whispered in my ear before we fell asleep. It wasn't meant to hurt, but it did.
I realized: his love would never hold my hand — only tighten its grip. He had me believing in him like a faith, but in the end, he was destroying me as a man.
I grabbed my bags, his eyes heavy on my back. The sharp scent of a freshly lit cigarette hung in the air between us while tears slipped down my cheeks in silence, each one carving space for the growing emptiness inside me. And still, he said nothing.
Once I had everything I needed — everything except his unconditional love — I walked toward the door. Just as I was about to leave, he said something that finished the demolition of my heart.
“I’m sorry I’m the one you love. I would’ve loved you better if I was someone else.”