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“I think the part that sounds like love to me is, “Don’t want no other shade of blue but you, no other sadness in the world would do.” It sounds like – to me, that sounds like what love really is. Like, “Who would you be sad with? And who would you deal with when they were sad?” And, like, “Gray skies, every day, for months. Would you still stay?”
-Taylor Swift, folklore: the long pond studio sessions
— — —
On the northwest side of Austin, Texas, not too far from the bustling city center, there is a small cliff.
It overlooks the Pennybacker Bridge, a through-arch bridge that crosses Lake Austin. It's beautiful, often touted as a scenic route. The cliffside that faces the bridge has no guard rails or safety measures in place, but it is still an attractive destination for tourists and locals alike who wish to hike to the highest point and stare out over the rushing waters a couple hundred feet below. They take their aesthetically staged photos with their arms spread wide and their faces turned toward the sun, with their feet dangling over the edge.
Over the years, the bridge, the cliff, and the water have claimed a few lives. Jumpers looking for a thrill; hikers just trying to see how close to the bluff they can get. Accidents, mostly. Tragedies that live in the news for a few days before fading away with the next big story. Austin has enough of those to go around.
Henry doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the cliffside.
Time moves differently when his mind is fighting itself.
Seconds take hours.
Hours take minutes.
And the minutes are fickle, haunted things—here and gone in a blink, in the slow drag of an inhale, in a single beat of an aching heart.
On a summer afternoon, this area would be teeming with life. Cars would zoom by on the bridge, hands thrust out the windows and weaving through the warm air. The water would be dotted with boats and echoing with sounds of laughter. The cliff would be crowded with people vying for a perfect, Instagram-worthy photo.
But on an early December morning, it’s quiet. It’s cold. The breeze coming off the river is chilly and unforgiving. The ground beneath Henry is frozen and rigid when he curls his knees to his chest and stares out over the grey view in front of him, below him.
So far below him. Far enough that a slip would—
It’s not why he’s here. It’s not.
Henry only thinks about the fall sometimes. But it’s more often than he ever admits to anyone, even his therapist.
She says it’s okay for him to process those thoughts when they intrude into his brain, that fighting them doesn’t do him any favors in the long run. But then there are steps he can take, like figuring out the source of the thought and changing it. Modifying behaviors. Conditioning himself to be something else. Something different.
Something better.
He only ever thinks about it, and that is the truth he chooses to share.
“Thoughts aren’t behaviors,” is what Andrea tells him. “And if you can work through the thoughts, then hopefully they never will be.”
Henry thinks it must be true. Even when he is engaged in a winless fight with his mind, his soul broken down from existing in this world that takes and takes and fucking takes, he doesn’t think he would actually act on the ideations. He can wait out the bad days.
What he doesn’t tell his therapist is that sometimes, the thoughts are a comfort. A constant. A way to cope with the sleepless nights. Something he understands intuitively, a dark part of his psyche that has been with him longer than almost anything else in his life. Ice cold water that his body has grown accustomed to. It barely even steals his breath anymore.
He might not know who he is without those thoughts. Without knowing that they exist inside of him but that he is stronger than they are because he's never once listened to them.
And he won't. Couldn’t. Even if he wants to sometimes, he doesn’t think he would ever—
A frustrated groan rips from his throat, followed by a cathartic scream that reverberates in his skull and echoes in the grey skies around him. His eyes burn. He bends forward under a weight that he can’t shed, a burden that he carries like his own coffin, heavy and cumbersome and suffocating.
He has everything a person could want—he knows he does—and he still sits on this cliff and stares down at the ravine below and wonders.
Would falling feel like relief? Would he find peace at the end of the plunge?
It's fine. He won’t. He won’t.
Even though the world is dark and everyone has something to say about his life or a rumor to spread and he's never once felt like he had a fucking choice and—
And that's not true.
When his heart is hurting underneath the scars from where he has been pulled apart and stitched back together, he chooses to think of the love he found along the way. When his thoughts are storm clouds that settle in the crevices of his mind and shadows that try to wrap around his throat, he chooses not to let them win. When he screams into the pit that resides in his chest and cries out for a reason to leave the pain behind, he chooses to remember the reasons to stay.
He has so many, doesn’t he?
Alex's beautiful, sleepy smile on Sunday mornings, when the light begins to creep through the windows and they both burrow deeper beneath their shared quilt. Alex’s suggestive grin when he slides a warm hand beneath Henry’s shirt to touch his skin. The way Alex's voice floats through their new home when he talks to David, showering him with affection. The love Henry feels when Alex smiles into a tender kiss, and the way those smiles taste like home.
He knows there is more, too. Bea’s Sunday morning texts and Pez’s late-night memes and the way his nieces squeal his name over a Facetime call.
Henry remembers everything good he has, and he makes it through every time.
Somehow, he is both too broken and not quite broken enough.
Henry takes a breath. The cold burns in his lungs.
But he's alive.
He can feel the ground beneath his palm and the wind in his hair. A headache is forming behind his eyes. His heart continues to beat despite all odds.
Somewhere far behind him, he can hear the crunch of a tire on gravel and the slight squeal of a car brake. A door opens and closes, followed by silence. After a beat, there is the faint sound of hurried footsteps coming up the path.
Alex must have found him. Henry waits for him, staring out at the river below. He takes another breath and scoots an inch away from the edge, already feeling like his heart is being cradled gently within loving hands.
The footsteps stop a few meters away, almost as if they belong to a stranger, someone hesitant to come any closer. But Henry knows those footsteps. Knows the body that those feet belong to, the stubborn heart within it that has claimed Henry's own with resolute purpose. The other half of his soul.
Henry glances back, and Alex is there. Alex is always there.
His hands are tucked into his pockets, worry lines deep on his forehead as he stands and waits for permission that he doesn’t need.
“How did you know where I was?” Henry asks, his voice rough from disuse.
“I have my ways.”
The corner of Henry's mouth quirks upward. “Nora, then?”
Alex chuckles, the sound soft. “Her obsession with having everyone's location at all times does come in handy.”
Henry nods. His throat is tight around the emotions that he can't put into words. How does he explain the way his mind is both his greatest strength and his most formidable enemy? How does he articulate the dull, constant ache in his chest that is worse than a sharp pain? How can he adequately describe feeling like he exists in flat shades of black and white, while the world moves around him in stark, screaming color?
It never quite comes out right when he tries to explain.
Of course, Alex has never asked him to.
“I wondered if you would find me,” Henry says, swallowing thickly and meeting Alex’s eyes. “Even though I left a note that I was going to be out for a few hours.”
“Yeah, I was just worried.” Alex kicks the toe of his shoe into the dirt. “You weren't answering your phone, and I know your head has been a little distant and blue the last few days because of all the fucking bullshit in the news, and then when I realized you were here, I didn't know if maybe—”
Alex's voice cracks and cuts off. His eyes shut. His hand squeezes into a fist. As if he’s trying to force his honest reaction down, to keep Henry from seeing the consequences of his actions.
And that pulls forth an emotion that Henry can explain. Nauseating guilt wraps around his throat, stealing his breath. Henry’s heart has been ripped apart in every way imaginable, felt agony so consuming that he still lives with it every day.
But this—seeing the pain on Alex’s face, hearing it in his voice—hurts much worse.
Alex opens his eyes, clears his throat, and rasps, “I just figured if you were looking for a reason to stay, I should find you.”
“I'm not leaving,” Henry tells him. “I'm here.”
There is moisture in Alex's eyes. “On a fucking cliffside, Henry.”
“Just looking, darling, I promise.”
“Okay,” Alex says, but his feet still don’t move.
“It's a lovely view, don't you think?” Henry asks, looking out at the sun that sits just above the horizon before returning his attention to Alex. “Would you like to sit with me and watch it for a bit?”
Alex nods and finally—finally—moves toward where Henry rests. He sits down next to Henry as close as space will allow, leaning in to touch his lips to Henry's temple. Henry’s next breath feels a little easier, and he lets himself be held together by Alex’s touch.
“I love you,” Alex reminds him, simple and hushed and undoubtedly true. “So much.”
“I know,” Henry murmurs, his chin trembling. “I'm so sorry that I made you worry.”
“It's okay. I just—” Alex exhales in a rush, his arm looping around Henry's waist and pulling him closer. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “You know I would be lost without you, right? You're my entire fucking heart, baby.”
Henry nods, reaching up to cradle Alex's jaw in his palm. “No, I know. I'm not… I'm not leaving you. I promise. I wouldn’t. I’m just… sad.”
“That’s okay,” Alex tells him. “You can be sad all you want. I’m still here.”
Their foreheads touch. Alex's breath shakes, but he looks into Henry's eyes and sees him. He doesn't flinch or try to wish that ache away. Instead, his expression is filled with tender affection. Almost as if he loves the broken parts of Henry, too.
“This is supposed to be a happy time,” Henry says, his thumb sweeping across Alex's cheek. “We just got married, for Christ's sake.”
Alex slides his palm over Henry's chest, his touch resting above Henry's heart. “In sickness and in health, sweetheart. For better or for worse. In happiness and sadness.”
“That last one wasn’t in the vows.”
“It is now. I just said so.”
Henry makes a displeased sound, grimacing. “I wish you didn't have to deal with the sickness and sadness.”
“I don't mind it as long as it's yours,” Alex swears, his fingertips flexing against Henry's collarbone. “It's part of you, so I love it, too.”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
Alex’s smile is a bit crooked. “Your particular shade of blue is my favorite and the only one I want to see for the rest of my fucking life. That’s what should have been in my vows, honestly.”
Henry’s eye roll is gentle, and one corner of his mouth twitches upward. “It feels like you’re just teasing me now.”
“But you're almost smiling about it.”
“Because it’s you.”
Alex’s cheek is warm beneath Henry’s hand. “Yeah, well.”
“I love you,” Henry tells him, touching a soft kiss to Alex’s lips. “Thank you for finding me. For being here.”
“Always,” Alex whispers fiercely. “I do kinda wish you'd told me where you were going this morning and saved me an hour of wondering.” There isn’t a trace of admonishment in his tone, only gentle acceptance. “But I love you, and I'm always gonna be with you. Beside you. Legally. You can't return me without a shit-ton of paperwork.”
Henry snorts, and Alex's smile widens.
“I am always going to be right here, holding your hand, no matter how sad or low you get,” Alex continues, reaching down to tangle their fingers together. “And if you go jumping off of any cliffs, I'll be holding your hand then, too. So… stay, please.”
Henry nods. “I will. I am. I promise.”
And he takes a slow, even breath. He accepts the tender kiss that Alex presses to his mouth and lets himself be pulled into his husband's warm embrace.
Alex is here. A peaceful quiet settles around them. They don’t discuss the newest headline or what the gossip blogs are saying. They’ve both seen enough this week to be jaded by the chaos, and this—the two of them in a suspended moment of time—doesn’t belong to the rest of the world.
Alex brushes his thumb over the ring on Henry's left hand, touches his lips to the crown of Henry's head, whispers, “I love you,” so many times that Henry wonders if the words are tattooed on his soul.
They must be. They exist here in the light, but they are also in the parts of himself where light cannot reach.
Alex sits with him in those terrifying shadows, on the dangerous cliffside, while a storm rages around them. He is Henry’s guiding beacon and comforting fire, a love so encompassing and pure that sometimes it doesn’t make sense. So unfathomable it must be a hoax.
But it isn’t. It’s the truest thing Henry knows. One of the only things he still believes in with his entire heart.
Alex found him, somehow, even in the dark. And stayed, even in the dark.
He is Henry’s reason for letting his feet dangle over the edge but not letting it take him. His reason for pushing forward even when the world is cruel.
His reason to stay.
Alex is here. He takes Henry's hand, helping him up. He doesn't let go.
They walk away from the cliffside together.