waiting for him to take it back,
change his mind.
But he doesn’t.
I cock my head.Did he?—
No.He didn’t say that.
Not to me. Not after all this shit.
“You're notdonewith us?” I repeat.
I’m projecting. I’m hallucinating.
He didn’t say what I think he said.
But then his thumb grinds across my palm,
afraid of losing his grip on the moment.
I’m staring down at our hands, eyes wide.
He continues, “The second I turned my back on you in the lobby, I knew I fucked up, alright? I was halfway down the block, debatin’ if I should cry or punch a wall.” He laughs under his breath, looks off, lifting a shoulder. “Didn’t think I deserved a second chance after that.”
Nah. Back the fuck up.
Rewind.
What the fuck are you saying.
My focus narrows to our joint hands,
too afraid to look into his eyes.
But he reaches for me,
fingers catching my chin,
tipping it up until my eyes meet his again.
“You ever think what this could be if we stopped runnin’? Stopped bullshittin’ and just let it happen?”
Yeah, every fuckin’ day?—
Wait.
No.
Stop.
Don’t do that to me.
Don’t look at me like this thing isn’t doomed.
Don’t look at me like this is possible.
Don’t hold my hand like you don’t want to let me go.
