We hover there.
Stuck in the silence, the hush.
“Andrew,” I whisper.
His eyes fall heavy,
and I swear I can hear his pulse.
Then he swallows,
his voice fading as the words slip out of him…
“…And even the way you just… talk…
“and stand…
“and walk and… ”
His lips press shut,
trying to bite the words back.
“Fuck…”He white-knuckles the shelf, holding himself back with his stare locked on me.
My breath’s gone all wrong.
Not out, but not in either.
His eyes drop down to my mouth.
He wets his lip.
“But nah—you had to be you.”
Yeah.I think I’m having a fucking heart attack.
Andrew’s whisper-yelling now,
like he’s officially losing his mind.
“Coulda been anybody. With trash music taste. Dry-ass jokes. Sayin’literallyevery two fuckin’ seconds, comin’ on to me, usin’ me, needin’ somethin’. But nah.” He laughs, wild and a little broken. “Nah. You had to be you. La ragazza dei miei sogni.” He spits it out, as if it burns his mouth. “My fuckin’ dream girl—fuckin’ hell.”
I blink.
His eyes widen,
like the words mugged him on the way out.
Like he can’t believe he said that out loud.
Like he’s irreversibly fucked.
“Okay… that sounded a little psychotic.”
I blink again. It’s all I can do.Blink.
Maybe I’m seizing too.
