I
made him write for me.
“I’ve
never felt this way before,” he scribbled across my page in a messy script. My
heart skipped and hope swelled inside of it like a balloon only to be quickly quieted
by my head. No. That wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t want this…but it was
being handed to me on a silver platter and that
was difficult to ignore. His eyes searched mine and I felt my face flush. I
looked away from him to the floor. He placed the pen on the table in front of
me and shrugged his shoulders as if that was the best that he could do.
He
turned to leave and I let him. I watched him go and I thanked god for not
letting him stay a moment longer.
My
mind flashed back to days earlier when he’d told me that he loved me. He knew
that I didn’t feel the same. But he’d told me anyway.
“And
I don’t care if you think that it’s too soon but it’s how I feel. And you don’t
have to say it back. But I want you to know.” And from that moment on, he
always let me know. It made my stomach churn and I tortured him for a full
month before I said it back. He never complained.
It
was sort of new to me: being wanted. He adored me. I hadn’t the slightest idea
how I'd won his affections and I was in too dumbfounded a state to ask
regardless.
His
love made me dumb. I let the balloon inside my heart grow and grow. He talked
so animatedly about us, our future, that I was easily sucked in.
Stupid.
I
shook my head, clearing these memories and looked back down at the sheet of
paper on my desk. One word, written in my own script, stood alone on the sea of
white page: James.
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