I close my eyes, remembering?—
“Then after? He didn’t even fuck me.” I laugh under my breath. “Could’ve tried. Didn’t. Even after telling him it was a one-night thing. I handed the kid no strings, no consequences. And he said no. Said he didn’t wanna ruin it.”
My chest tightens.
“So I leave him high and dry… and this fucker waits every night. Twenty-eight nights in a row.”
I blow out a breath, rub my temple.
“He’s Greek tragedy-level.”
I laugh again,
but it’s gravel and scraping my throat.
“And people like me shouldn’t be handed people like him. I’m the grim reaper of intimacy. I crush feelings like dead flowers. I destroy people I care about.”
“Allison…” she says softly. “People don’t cry during intimacy by accident. He felt safe with you. Not because he thought you couldn’t hurt him, but because he decided you were worth the risk. And every decision he’s made since sounds like he’s trying to protect what you shared.”
Another quiet breath.
“The same reason you’re calling me now.
“You’re trying to protect him too. Now you have to ask if that’s something you want.”
A laugh slips out of me. One you hear in a padded room right before they sedate you.
“Having something’s the first stage of losing it,” I say. “Then comes the grief, and grief is a contagious disease with no cure. Spreads fast. Leaves you lonely. Turns you into a bitch who steals your best friend’s phone, hides in a bathtub, and calls a therapist she doesn’t even pay, just to figure out how not to fall.”
At first she doesn’t respond.
I’m on a time crunch here.
Then—“Do you want to be with him?”
Why must she ask vague questions.
“What does ‘be with’even mean?” I snap.
“Like, in a car? On a couch? Up against a wall?
She jumps in?—
“Do you want arelationshipwith him?”
I laugh,
but it ends with my forehead in my palm,
chest aching, voice cracking.
“He doesn’t fit the system.”
She hums?—
“Then stop asking how he fits into the system,
“and start asking if the system still fits you.”
