He looks at me.
I look at him.
He keeps looking at me.
I turn my head away.
"Then you don't know my type," I mutter.
"Right." He stretches and gets to his feet.
"Back in a sec. Gonna piss before I fucking explode."
"Don't get lost in the woods," I mutter.
He laughs and disappears down the hill.
What the fuck am I doing. I'm literally sitting here, lying to the one person who actually knows me best. Because I'm trying to convince myself.
If I keep calling him boring, annoying, whatever, maybe at some point my body will believe me and stop reacting like that every time I see him.
Because right now, I'm fucking terrified of him.
Not of Rava the person.
He's not scary.
He's soft.
Does everything right.
Smiles a lot.
I'm scared of what he does to me. Yesterday on that rooftop, I felt it. That thing I've been shoving into a dark corner for years, locking the door, piling shit on top of it.
It moved. I swear it fucking moved.
The second I had him in my arms, it pushed.
Aggressively.
Like, hey, remember me? You tried to kill me? Guess what, I'm still here.
And I can't let that happen. I can't let that out.
I spent too long forcing it down. So yeah. I talk about him like he's nothing. I roll my eyes when his name comes up. Because the alternative is admitting that I care.
That I'm kind of curious.
That I want to know what would happen if I stopped pulling away. I can't do that.
I'm fucked.
If I look this thing in the eye now, after all these years of pretending it's dead, I don't know what it'll do to me.
I hate that I'm doing this.
I hate that I'm scared.
