Ihaveto leave.
And yet my feet carry me in the direction of his room, completely unnoticed by the crowd surrounding me.
I halt in front of Yulian’s door, my breathing deepening, my fingers hesitating on the doorknob.
Just like they did four years ago when I found myself in a place I shouldn’t have been.
And that was also because of this prick.
It was the first time I ran away from home, the first time I defied norms, tradition, and my core beliefs.
The first time I used my intellect to outsmart my parents and leave their reach.
I felt so free, as if I were soaring in the sky.
Until I was crushed back to life again.
Back then, if I hadn’t stood in front of his door, if I hadn’t gone in, I wouldn’t have had my hopes broken to pieces before they even started to be fulfilled.
I wouldn’t have become the current version of myself.
If I turn back right now, I won’t have to relive that experience.
I won’t have to feel the cracks in my armor that I thought was impenetrable.
A noise comes from my right, and I turn the knob, then slip inside, locking the door after me.
The soft glow of a standing lamp illuminates the room.
His room.
Haphazard, chaotic, with clothes thrown on chairs, books open, pens scattered on the desk. He’s drawn a bullet on the top corner of his notebook, like a child who needs pictures woven in with text.
Removing the mask, I scan my surroundings. There are a few dismantled electronic devices on the desk, exposed wires hooked into strange makeshift cubes. A few screws and pins are scattered about in a complete mess.
A rough groan draws my attention to Yulian, who’s sprawled across the bed.
One arm draped over his head, T-shirt rumpled and untucked, jeans riding low on his hips. The serpentinemask lies beside him, glinting faintly in the low light as if the snakes will come out and devour him alive.
His thick brows are relaxed in sleep, but they still carry that arrogant slant. Lips parted slightly, full and flushed. Jaw sharp enough to cut someone.
The shadows shift across his face with every breath he takes, casting fleeting ghosts down the veins in his throat and collarbone. There’s a small scar on the side of his cheek I hadn’t noticed before. A fresh one across his knuckles. Another one peeking from where his shirt is lifted, on his abs, disappearing beneath the waist of his pants.
His body is always telling stories, and I have this urge to press my fingers against every line and make them speak.
There’s something obscene in the way he sleeps so unguarded, so alive.
I want to reach out and squash him. Slit his throat or choke him to death so he can no longer speak or threaten me or text me when he’s bored.
Just so he’ll…stopdisrupting the balance of my life.
My hand reaches down, wrapping around his throat.
And it’s like I touched fire.
He’s not burning up, but something inside me is. A tingling sensation shoots up my arm and settles in the pit of my stomach with a thud.
I don’t squeeze.
