Theea
sometimes we gotta risk
it all to chase a dream
it all to chase a dream
I cling to the rope. Panic hits wild and wordless—animal—until a strong hand engulfs mine and halts the slide.
He hauls. My boots scrape for purchase, stone gritting under the sole, rope biting through glove to palm. Moments stretch elastic and thin, then snap: first my chest over the lip, then all of me, not just onto the ledge but to my feet and straight into him.
We stumble together once. He sets. My arms lock tight around him. He is solid and unwavering, breath heavy against my ear, his heartbeat a firm, unflinching drum. My whole body shakes, breath coming in short, clipped bursts as I try not to see the drop—only the drop—the clean, simple end of falling. It doesn’t matter that this cliff isn’t high. My mind can only draw the line down.
I squeeze my eyes shut. His breathing steadies; that cadence reaches me, carries me. I stay pressed close, letting him be the anchor while fear tugs hard at everything loose inside me. It’s a long minute before my breath evens and the tremor loosens its teeth.
His answer comes as a low rumble in his chest, and when his arms ease, my grip eases too—but I don’t step back yet.
"I’m sorry," I mumble into him. "I didn’t know cliffs would turn suddenly terrifying. I used to climb them for fun." Now all I can see is my father dangling, the scrabble for a foothold, stone tearing free.
I lean back just enough to look up. This close, our breaths share the same thin strip of air; warmth touches the cold between us. In the dark I catch details in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before—depth on depth, the dusk of the woods captured in glass, endless, quiet, and brimming with unspoken things—and it both quiets me and lights a small, treacherous spark.
"Thank you," I murmur.
I linger, letting the shape of him overwrite the panic, resisting the sudden urge to map the lines of his face with my fingers.
"We’ll lose your leopard if we linger too long," I add at last, voice soft as fresh snow—though my feet, for a beat longer, refuse to move me out of his hold.
He hauls. My boots scrape for purchase, stone gritting under the sole, rope biting through glove to palm. Moments stretch elastic and thin, then snap: first my chest over the lip, then all of me, not just onto the ledge but to my feet and straight into him.
We stumble together once. He sets. My arms lock tight around him. He is solid and unwavering, breath heavy against my ear, his heartbeat a firm, unflinching drum. My whole body shakes, breath coming in short, clipped bursts as I try not to see the drop—only the drop—the clean, simple end of falling. It doesn’t matter that this cliff isn’t high. My mind can only draw the line down.
I squeeze my eyes shut. His breathing steadies; that cadence reaches me, carries me. I stay pressed close, letting him be the anchor while fear tugs hard at everything loose inside me. It’s a long minute before my breath evens and the tremor loosens its teeth.
His answer comes as a low rumble in his chest, and when his arms ease, my grip eases too—but I don’t step back yet.
"I’m sorry," I mumble into him. "I didn’t know cliffs would turn suddenly terrifying. I used to climb them for fun." Now all I can see is my father dangling, the scrabble for a foothold, stone tearing free.
I lean back just enough to look up. This close, our breaths share the same thin strip of air; warmth touches the cold between us. In the dark I catch details in his eyes I hadn’t noticed before—depth on depth, the dusk of the woods captured in glass, endless, quiet, and brimming with unspoken things—and it both quiets me and lights a small, treacherous spark.
"Thank you," I murmur.
I linger, letting the shape of him overwrite the panic, resisting the sudden urge to map the lines of his face with my fingers.
"We’ll lose your leopard if we linger too long," I add at last, voice soft as fresh snow—though my feet, for a beat longer, refuse to move me out of his hold.
if we dive in headfirst,
all or nothing kinda thing
all or nothing kinda thing
