My face presses into my hands. And I cry.
I cry quiet but I don’t cry pretty.
I cry like someone ripped my lungs out through my throat and said,
breathe, bitch. I fuckin’ dare you.
But my heart’s quiet now.
Not because it’s strong.
Because it’s given up,
said it’s done.
It’s tired of being strangled every time it wants to feel something.
// 12:13 AM //
Andrew’s standing outside the bathroom?—
shirt on,
hands in his pockets,
shoulder to brick.
He’s not leaning on the wall.
The wall’s leaning on him.
The whole damn hallway wants to get back in his jeans, too.
Then the Jersey swagger slips right off him the second he sees me.
One look at my face, and he knows.
His face drops.
His hands come out of his pockets.
As if he’s ready to catch any hurt in case it spills out of me.
“Shit.” His eyes scatter fast across my face. “You cried.”
He says it as if it cuts him,
confirming every worst-case scenario.
As if my tears are something he should’ve protected with his life.
“I wasn’t crying,” I mutter.
He steps forward,
then back,
then forward again,
