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Fake my death.
Flee the United States of America.
Paris.
Yes, Paris is always a good idea.
Buzz.
I stop,
freezing on the sidewalk,
staring at my purse like it just bit me.
Hands shaking.
Pulse sprinting.
Brain empty.
And all I can think is:
Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him?—
(Please be him.)
I pull out my phone.
Andrew:
Please stay
*sends dramatic “don’t go” Leonardo DiCaprio GIF*
My breath is gone.
I press my palm to my chest,
shove the feeling down,
tuck it in, act normal, make sure I’m not…
Smiling.
Shit.
No.
Dammit, I’m smiling.
Fuck.
I spin on my heel, gripping my purse tight.
Then it’s too late.
I’m facing him,
