Something to distract me.
Something loud enough to drown him out.
Because for a month,
he’s possessed my every thought.
Like I’m not the worst thing that’s going to happen to him.
The night in the basement wasn’t supposed to follow me home.
It was supposed to be a wild-and-free,
let-go-without-consequence moment.
We’re all allowed one Blur Hour.
That night at Type was supposed to be mine.
Then he waited at Type.
Night after night.
For twenty-eight nights.
For me.
Like I'm something good.
Then I walked back into the bookstore.
Then we sat there for hours
talking about everything,
except what happened in the basement,
convinced if we didn’t mention it,
it wouldn’t ruin us.
Now I keep reaching for my phone,
waiting for his text.
Now I'm dragging him into a mess he knows nothing about, as if he won’t be disgusted once he finds out about me.
As if there’s no Baby Contract, and I don’t have a full-blown, medically concerning orgasm addiction that I built my entire life around, with rules to keep me from spiraling into hell.
As if I’m fucking normal.
And maybe the problem is I keeppretending.
I need to remind myself who I am.
Why my walls exist in the first place.
Why I built them
