Purposefully Accidental

Chapter Thirty-Three

"Well—" I sigh, pulling myself up to sit on the bed as well. "Well you're—you're fucking crying now, Jonah. You were sobbing all over me at the thought of me having cancer. I can't—this was why I didn't want you to know, I..."

He looks over his shoulder at me, forehead deeply knitted in confusion—and maybe a little bit of anger. "You—what? You think I'm crying now because I'm repulsed by the thought of you having cancer?"

You wouldn't be the first person to feel that way, I want to say.

"You wouldn't have wanted me," I challenge him. I pause, preparing for the pity in his eyes to show up. "I was sick. And then my brother died. And I fell into depression. And I kept hurting everyone around me because that's what I always fucking do. You didn't see me during those months. It was ugly, Jonah."

"Hannah..."

"I was on suicide watch. That one took longer to recover from than the cancer itself," I hurl it out, because at this point, I can't hit the brakes anymore. "I was not alright. So, yes, I was—I am glad that you weren't with me back then. Because you would've hated me. You would've hated the person I had become when I was sick."

Jonah looks stunned. He tears his gaze away from me, hanging his head low as he brings his hand to his mouth.

This is it. The shock and the pity and the disgust. I can see it coming, just like it already happened before. I once witnessed it happen, how all those emotions played out—it's been playing on a loop in my head for the past few years. It very nearly drew an irreparable distance between me and the people I cared about.

"Hannah." His low voice ripples. "I'm crying because—the thought of you, going through all of that..." His breath shudders. "The thought of me being completely fucking unaware of you going through all of that, while I was only living minutes away from where you were... It makes me sick to my stomach."

I'm breathing heavily, but I say nothing.

His voice breaks. "I feel fucking shitty. Not because I think I could've done something to make you feel better. Not because I think I could've taken all your hits with a smile. Not because I think I would've done any better than—I mean, it's just. Fuck. I'm just feeling like shit because you were hurting and I had no fucking idea. I had no idea."

I feel a tear escape from my eye, and I wipe it away with a sniffle. "I didn't—I wasn't keeping it from you maliciously. We weren't talking."

Jonah's shoulders collapse. "I know that."

I continue, "It wasn't—I'm sorry, but you were the last thing on my mind that year, with everything that was going on. With the pandemic, and—I didn't even know you were in New York. And I wasn't alone. I got—I had—" I correct myself. "I got help. I'm fine now. But I wasn't then. And I'm just..." I shrug, wrapping my arms around myself. "You can't blame me for not wanting you to see me at my worst."

I let silence fall upon us, as we both catch our breaths. Eventually, he turns back around, facing me but still keeping what little distance there is with the tight space on my bed.

"I'm not a saint, Hannah. I can't promise you that I would've stayed if you kept pushing me away when you were sick. But I love you. How do I make you understand that nothing—not your scars, not your cancer, not your depression—nothing could make me stop loving you?"

Then he reaches out to take my hands.

"I'm crying because," his eyes water again, and I can't stop the tear from falling to his cheek, "because I'm so glad you're still here with me. I can't imagine the thought of... if you were gone and I had no idea—"