“You want to spread your legs for me when I need it?”
His chest moves, jerks up and down, and I feel it all under my palms, in my own chest even. “Yeah.”
“You want me to use you to fuck all my frustrations out,” he keeps repeating my own words to me and somehow, it ramps up my restlessness.
“Yes. All of them.”
I even arch up against him to tell him that I really mean it.
And it’s not a hardship, see. It’s not hard to tighten my thighs around him and bow my back and rock against his athletic body.
It’s not hard to let him know that I need him.
What is hard andhas beenhard was to hide it.
My need for him. My love. For eight whole years.
But not anymore.
I won’t stop myself. I won’t even feel embarrassed about my love for him.
Because I’ve realized something.
Something very important about myself.
My sister called me a whore. She said that if I ever made a play for him then I’d be a slut.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m not making a play for him. I’m not trying to steal him.
For the past eight years, I’ve been living in this fear that one day my love will make me do the unthinkable.
My doomed love will make me so desperate, so dangerous that I will try to get him, grab him, keep him for myself.
But now I know that I never would have done that.
Because in this moment when he’s hurting,I’mhurting. When his pain makes his jaw clench, my insides clench. When anguish burns his eyes, my skin feels it.
In this moment, I can see everything clearly.
I can see that I never ever would’ve made a play for him. I never ever would’ve tried to wreck his relationship so he could be mine.
Even my attempt to kiss him on the bridge wasn’t born out of malice or because I wanted to steal him away. It was born out of pure, overwhelming love.
A love I didn’t want to fall in but I did anyway.
I didn’t do it to hurt anyone. I didn’t fall in love with my Arrow to hurt my sister.
I fell in love with him like dead leaves fall from the branch of a tree and rain falls from a swollen cloud. I fell in love with him like tears fall when you’re sad and like blood oozes out of your skin when you step on broken glass.
It was natural.
So it’s natural for me to heal his pain, or at least put a balm on it. Love him when he can’t love himself and thinks he’s a failure.
And when the time comes for him to leave, to go back to where he belongs, it will be natural for me to let him go.
Because his happiness is my happiness.
Until then, I’ll be a girl in doomed love and I won’t be ashamed of it.
