My throat tightens, and I blink up at the ceiling, fighting the ridiculous wave of emotion for a man whosereal name I don’t even know.
@OneLastLine:
…Then you won’t.
The fact that you care this much tells me you won’t.
For a long moment, there’s no reply, and I imagine him somewhere, wherever he is, reading my words and maybe feeling a little less alone tonight.
When the bubble finally pops up again, I smile through the ache in my chest.
@HalfWritten:
You’re easy to talk to, you know that?
I feel like I could tell you anything, and you’d get it.
I hug my pillow and whisper, “Me too” to the empty room.
I stare at his last message. My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a second before I give in to the truth.
@OneLastLine:
That’s not weird at all.
…Or maybe it is, but I feel the same.
I don’t know why, but I’m extremely comfortable with you.
The three dots appear almost immediately, and my pulse picks up.
@HalfWritten:
Comfortable, huh?
That’s a dangerous thing to say to a man you barely know.
I laugh softly into my pillow.
@OneLastLine:
Why?
@HalfWritten:
Because it makes me want to push that comfort.
See how far it goes.
I pause, heat curling low in my stomach even though he hasn’t said anything explicitly inappropriate. God, he could probably recite the phone book and my heart would still trip over itself right now.
@OneLastLine:
…I think I’d let you.
There’s a long pause, and I imagine him reading that, maybe leaning back somewhere in the dark, smiling to himself the way I am right now.
@HalfWritten:
