I swear if he was just some random guy, I wouldn’t care this much.
I’d fuck him, enjoy it, let him go home and deal with his own conscience.
But now it’s him. The same him who gets nervous meeting new people but somehow isn’t scared of me.
The same him who blushes when I stare at his mouth but still stares right back.
The same him who tells me stupid boring little stories about his day when he gets bored during meetings like I’m someone who needs to hear them.
He makes me feel like… fuck, I don’t know. Less doomed.
Which just makes it worse. Because if this goes where our bodies want it to go, there’s no coming back.
We’re something else. Something heavier.
And one day he might wake up and realize how heavy that is. One day he might look back and think, damn, my first time was with someone who couldn’t even hold my hand on the street.
Jesus Christ, I’m gonna throw up just by thinking about it.
It’s so pathetic. I don’t care about being the first.
Well, I do, but I care more about not being 'the regret'.
I can see it so clearly I want to punch something. Him years from now, sitting somewhere far away, telling someone about his past. Laughing about the mistake he made with some guy who made him hide, who kept him in the dark, who loved him only when it was safe for him.
I’ve been this mistake insomany stories. I don’t mind that.
Idomind beinghis.
Whatever it is, it’s ugly and raw. I don’t have the nice words for it. And it’s painful, because I don’t know how to do gentle without also doing damage.
Never learned how. No one was important enough to make mewantto learn how to do it.
He deserves someone who can post a picture with him and write some cheesy caption and not worry that half the city will use it as ammo.
I kinda want that to be me. I want to be the one he points to when someone asks who are you seeing. I want to not give a shit who hears.
But that’s not the life I built. What the fuck am I supposed to do, magically become the open, proud, safe boyfriend just because he deserves it?
I’m a lot of things. Magician is not one of them.
If I stop now that he asked, he’ll probably be confused.
Maybe hurt.
Maybe he’ll think I don’t want him, which is the biggest joke of the century because I want him so badly it physically fucking aches.
If I don’t stop, I’m signing a contract my heart already knows I can’t refuse and my head knows I can’t afford.
It’s fucked either way.
My body is like "shut up, overthinker, this is literally what you’ve been wanting since the first time you saw him."
My guilt is like "cool, enjoy, and then watch him hate you in five years when he connects the dots."
I force myself to imagine that properly.
Imagine him realizing, with that slow, painful clarity, that he gave his first time to someone who couldn’t manage more than shadows.
