Come Here, I’ll Hold What’s Hurting

There comes a point in life

when you learn how to carry everything on your own.

You cry without anyone wiping your tears.

You get hurt so many times, you stop counting.

Loneliness becomes so familiar it almost feels like home.

But even then, a quiet part of your heart still hopes.

That somewhere out there is someone gentle enough

to notice the ache you hide so well.

Someone who will touch your face with care,

brush the hair away from your eyes,

kiss your forehead, and say

the words your soul has

been starving to hear:

Come here.

I’ll hold what’s hurting.

I was seated at a bar beneath dim amber lights, staring at the whiskey in my glass, wearing a black dress that made me look elegant, expensive, and tragically unavailable.

And I was thinking about that.

About how life teaches you to carry your own heartbreak. About how sometimes you stop asking to be held because no one ever stayed long enough to learn where it hurt.

The song in the background was slow, smoky, and dangerous to lonely women. The kind that makes you remember things you were trying not to miss.

Then I felt it.

Not a touch.

A presence.

The kind that changes the air before it changes the room.

Even with Slow Dancing in a Burning Room playing softly, I could feel him standing behind me, memorizing me in silence. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, and devastatingly calm.

Come here.

I’ll hold what’s hurting.

He stepped closer. So close I could feel the warmth of him, catch the clean masculine scent of his skin, the kind that made authority seem wearable. I rose on my tiptoes, just enough to meet him halfway—

…and then something started nibbling at the hem of my dress.

I frowned.

Because excuse me???

Romantic moment, cinematic lighting, emotionally available man—

and something is chewing my outfit???

Then came barking.

Loud. Persistent. Emotionally disrespectful barking.

And over it—

Knock knock knock.

“SUSAAAAN! Open up! I brought siopao!”

And just like that…

The bar dissolved.

The whiskey vanished.

The jawline evaporated.

The man? Gone.

I opened my eyes.

Reality:

One chaotic dog.

One overly enthusiastic man outside my door.

And zero emotional background music.

Oishi was barking like a furry evacuation alarm.

And outside?

Boyo.

Holding breakfast.

And absolutely destroying what could have been the best dream of my life.

Now, let’s establish something important.

Boyo?

He is completely in love with me.

Like… not casual. Not “let’s see where this goes.”

No.

Committed. Invested. Consistent.

And honestly?

Who wouldn’t be?

I mean…

look at me.

I’m voluptuous.

(Oishi would like to object.)

Bark. Bark. Bark.

I am barking because Susan must be awakened from her latest delusion.

I kid you not, this woman was laughing in her sleep like someone possessed. Her lips were even puckered, as if she were preparing to kiss a man who contributes nothing to rent, groceries, or utilities.

Also, Boyo kept knocking, and I could smell chicken.

Now, let us address the main issue.

Susan keeps using the word “voluptuous” as if she understands it.

She does not.

Next time, I will personally give her a dictionary.

Or at the very least, force her to Google it.

Anyway.

She picked me up and hugged me like a plush toy.

I cannot breathe.

Send help.

Back to me.

Before opening the door, I picked Oishi up so he would stop barking.

I still don’t understand why he insists on sabotaging my best dreams. I fed him before I slept. He ate a lot.

This dog has three life goals:

Eat.

Sleep.

Cause problems.

And then eat again.

Before I got up, I paused.

Just… one more moment.

I let myself imagine.

A simple life.

A quiet suburb.

A small house. Not fancy—just peaceful.

A patio. A hammock.

A baby sleeping soundly in the next room.

Oishi guarding that child like it’s one of his prized possessions—second only to chicken.

Then the door opens.

“Sus, I’m home.”

He’s wearing one of those heavy jackets—the kind made for snow.

And I’m inside.

Cooking.

Waiting.

“BARK!”

Gone.

No baby.

No husband.

No snow.

Just me.

A small apartment.

And a paycheck that disappears faster than my self-control during online shopping.

(Oishi, mentally:)

She is broke because she keeps ordering nonsense and duplicates of things we already own.

Back to me.

I sat there for a moment.

Not dramatic sad.

Just… tired sad.

⸻

So I prayed.

“Lord… from the beginning, You said it was not good for man to be alone. You created woman, and through generations, You’ve blessed husbands, wives, and children.

I hope You can bless me with a husband and a baby too.

I know I have Oishi, and I love him very much… but we both know he is not an actual baby. Please don’t tell him that. He thinks he is my firstborn.

Lord… I wish I could say, ‘Your will be done.’

But I can’t.

Because what if…

Your will is not what I want?”

(Oishi:)

She gets like this sometimes.

Quiet. Heavy.

And then she hugs me and cries like I am a licensed therapist.

I am not.

But I do absorb emotional damage professionally.

My payment? Snacks.

Then Boyo knocked again.

“Sus, open the door.”

“What?!”

“I brought your favorite. Siopao.”

Of course I opened the door.

He came in.

I set the table.

And somewhere in the background—TV, memory, divine timing, who knows—

I heard:

“Lord, Your will be done.”

I froze.

Then I looked at Boyo.

And because I am me…

I told him the entire dream first.

Every detail.

Every emotion.

Full production.

Poor Boyo.

Still listened.

Because again—

in love.

Eventually, I got to the point.

“…and then I told God I want a family. A baby. A husband. But I couldn’t say ‘Your will be done’… because what if He doesn’t give me what I’m asking for?”

Boyo didn’t answer immediately.

He thought.

Then—

“Sus… do you trust me?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Do you feel at ease when Oishi is with me?”

“…yes.”

“Do you trust your dad?”

“Yes.”

“Did he give you everything you wanted?”

“…no.”

“But you still trusted him, right?”

Silence.

Then he said, gently:

“I think saying ‘Your will be done’ starts there.

Not pretending you’re not scared.

Not pretending you don’t want something.

But knowing who God is.”

I listened.

“He is holy. Loving. Faithful. Just. Gracious. Powerful.

And He knows everything—past, present, future. Even your thoughts.”

“What does omniscient mean again?” I asked.

He pulled out his phone like a man about to defend his thesis.

“God is all-knowing,” he read. “Complete and perfect knowledge of everything.”

Then he looked at me.

“If He sees everything… don’t you think He has a reason?”

“Maybe the answer is yes. Maybe no. Maybe wait.”

“But whatever it is—

it comes from who He is.”

I swallowed.

“So what do I do in the meantime?”

“Keep being honest with Him,” he said.

“You’re actually good at that.”

Then—

“But also… do your part.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want a husband,” he said,

“you might need to stop daydreaming long enough to notice the person standing in front of you.”

I stared.

“But… you are standing in front of me.”

He nodded.

“Yes. I am.”

(Oishi:)

Ackwaaaard.

I am the one blushing.

But honestly?

Choose Boyo.

No dramatic entrance. No cinematic lighting.

But—

He shows up.

He cares.

He brings food.

That’s elite behavior.

Susan was blushing now.

Then Boyo reached out—

not dramatically—

just gently.

“You’ve been hurt and alone for so long,” he said.

“Do you think maybe it’s finally time someone told you this?”

His thumb brushed her cheek.

Come here.

I’ll hold what’s hurting.

She froze.

But in a good way.

Because this time—

it wasn’t a dream.

He wasn’t the man she imagined.

But he was real.

And maybe…

that mattered more.

(Still… gym wouldn’t hurt.)

Paw to forehead.

The end. 😤

Still Rising. Still Barking 🐾