I read over his words a dozen times. Two dozen times. They seep inside me, battling with every misguided, baseless belief I’ve fed myself. Lies that don’t serve me.
Holding my breath, I keep typing.
Me:I guess I just feel lost lately. Like a side character in my own book. That sounds really pathetic, but I’m trying to figure out what I want, what’s right and what’s wrong.
I pause.
This part…
It feels too raw. But it’s there, poking at me. So I add it.
Me:And something tells me you’re supposed to be a part of that.
He goes quiet.
Two minutes drag by as I puff on the cigarette, second-guessing my own intentions. I don’t know what I’m searching for here.
A text flashes on the screen.
Chase:How does that make you feel?
Conflicting emotions bubble to the surface.
But mostly I feel—
Me:Scared. Guilty.
Chase:Why?
Me:Because you’re not my boyfriend. You’re not the guy I should be texting in the middle of the night, or the guy I wish I was with right now, writing music beneath the stars. It feels wrong.
I swallow hard.
It feels wrong because it is.
Tag said I was playing with fire, but it feels more complex than that.
Fire is straightforward. Honest.
This is something else. Muddy, blurry, and snarled.
Chase:This probably won’t make you feel any better…
Chase:But I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to meet up somewhere and write.
My breath locks up. Temptation seizes me.
He wants to meet up, right now, at almost one in the morning.
Alone.
It’s not like we haven’t spent alone time together, but something feels different. Ever since that night in the hallway.
I wonder if Chase feels the shift, this strange new dynamic, or if it’s all in my head. Intrusive thoughts infiltrate, twisting pure intentions into something that feels scary.
Scary enough to trigger my rational mind.
Me:I can’t. I’m sorry.
