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Her eyes soften. “People are rarely as black and white as we’d like them to be.”

I exhale. “Yeah, basically.” Lifting my head, I stare up at the sky. Here, in the central courtyard surrounded on all four sides by the Mistlemore Palace, the wind and chill isn’t cutting through like it could be, but flurries still float in the air, blurring the world around the thousands of Christmas lights decorating everything.

This picture is still beautiful.

And December’s still here, with me, choosing me.

Ah.

That’s what it is.

That’s what’s eating away at me.

Before tonight, I’d never so much as seen her parents. Before tonight, I’d heard things that made me despise them on so many levels, regardless of the fact that I knew December still loved them. I thought, Of course she loves those horrible people. She’s December. She could love anyone. She’s just made that way—with love bursting in her every cell.

Tonight, it was painfully obvious to me that December’s mother is her mother.

Tonight, I saw a person.

A real, entire person.

Flawed just like every other person on this blasted rock.

Flawed just like me.

Seeing her parents as people makes being the one December chose no longer taste quite like sweet relief. There’s only bitterness now, because I no longer have the luxury of seeing her parents as faceless oppressive, demanding snobs in my brain.

Now, I see a woman on the verge of tears, begging for her daughter back.

Now, I really feel like the monster she claims I am.

Even when I know that the environment her parents crafted wasn’t healthy or even completely safe for December emotionally, I still feel terrible for being a catalyst in separating her from someone who loves her, regardless of whether or not that love is perfect.

After all, I am acutely aware that my love isn’t perfect, either.

A hard breath pulls through me at the realization that her parents and I are in very similar positions. If I’m blatantly honest, I don’t know if I’m good for her, either.

Right now, I’m shaken and worried that I’m not enough for December. I’m shaken and worried that I’m not the best choice. I’m keenly aware that I’m selfish. I’m keenly aware that I only want to be the best for her.

And just wanting something doesn’t make it true.

To make it all so much more terrible, in the end, even if I am the worst thing December could possibly choose, it doesn’t matter.

So long as she wants me, so long as she chooses me, I may always struggle with feeling like I’m worthy of her. I may always find myself baffled and blessed by her adoration. I may always wonder when I’ll screw everything up, break her delusions about me, and lose the person I love most in the world.

I’m rough.

I’m gruff.

I’m big.

I’m bad.

I’m domineering and controlling and…yet.

I’m grateful.

I’m grateful that it’s not my job or my right to make her decisions for her, yet she’s picked me anyway.