People are pushing, and it pisses me the fuck off.
Come to the damn airport at a normal time if you don't wanna sprint, Karen. It's not my fault you woke up twelve minutes before boarding.
Move.
I'm trying to have a peaceful morning meltdown over here.
Everyone's losing their minds. Everyone except him. Rava's walking ahead of me, and he's so calm it actually freaks me out a little.
He hasn't said a word to me. Nothing besides one sleepy "good morning," and now he's just gliding with his stupid suitcase.
Every three minutes exactly, he shoves his shoulder bag higher because it keeps sliding off, and every time he does it, he gets slightly angrier at the bag.
It's hysterical.
If we were alone, I'd probably say something like, "Good job, Rava, your patience is actually insane."
He'd melt. He'd pretend he wouldn't, but come on, the guy lights up like a traffic light when I praise him.
I accidentally let out a laugh.
He spins around instantly, staring at me like a confused baby deer.
Good. Let him stay confused. Let him wonder what he broke.
We reach the check-in counter. Lorenzo's already ahead of us, flirting shamelessly with the poor girl behind the desk.
She's laughing, twirling her hair. My guy is eating it up.
I slam my passport down on the counter next to him, not bothering to smile. Rava drops his next to mine.
Our hands almost brush. I pull mine back instantly, like an asshole.
I can feel what that does to him without even looking, and it pisses me off. Not at him. At me. Because I don't fucking hate it.
That's the worst part.
I don't hate him touching me. I like it.
Way too much for something that's not supposed to mean anything. I still feel this fucking thing crawling under my skin whenever he's around.
It's there. I know it. He probably knows it too.
And I can't afford it.
I can't afford to let this turn into something real. I'm not about to drag him into that just because my heart decided to grow a personality all of a sudden.
So yeah, I pull away. I hurt him a little.
Because the alternative is me not stopping, is me letting it happen, letting it grow, and then watching him bleed for it later.
If one of us is gonna get cut open, I'd rather it be me.
Not him.
And I can't even fucking tell him. I can't just turn around and be like, "Hey, by the way, I'm gonna act like a bitch every time you get too close because you and my heart apparently have beef now."
No. That's the kind of thing he would never let go of.
