“Good,” he said softly. “I’ve never loved ordinary things.”
We fell in love slowly, carefully, beautifully. He traced my scars with reverent fingers and called them “stories written in strength.” He never once asked to see a photo of me before the accident. He said the Merritt he knew was the only one that mattered.
Six months later, he proposed in the church where he taught piano, surrounded by his students playing a clumsy but heartfelt version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
We married on a cold Sunday in November.
My dress had a high lace neckline and long sleeves to hide what I could. My veil was soft and forgiving. Callahan wore a classic black tuxedo and black sunglasses that made him look like a mysterious jazz musician. His students butchered an old love song during the ceremony, but it was somehow the most perfect music I had ever heard.
That night, in our small but cozy apartment filled with candles and the scent of jasmine, Callahan pulled me close on the edge of our bed.
He touched my face the way he always did — slowly, lovingly, memorizing every ridge and valley.
“You’re beautiful, Merritt,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.”
I broke down crying in his arms. For the first time in seventeen years, I felt truly seen. Not pitied. Not tolerated. Seen.
Then he pulled back slightly, his hands still cupping my scarred cheeks.
“I need to tell you something that will completely change the way you see me,” he said.
I smiled through my tears, brushing his jaw. “You can actually see?” I teased.
But Callahan didn’t smile back.
