I don’t.
• • •
He moves to my bed like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Like this is still his place.
And the worst part — it still feels like it is.
I stand there for a moment.
Looking at him.
The way he fits into this room.
Into my life.
Into the specific shape of everything I am.
Like he was always meant to be here.
Like I was always meant to be his.
I hate that I still believe that.
But I cross the room anyway.
Every step a choice I know I shouldn’t make.
• • •
I sit beside him.
Close enough that our knees brush.
Neither of us says anything.
His hand finds mine.
Gentle this time.
Like he’s asking.
Like he knows he doesn’t get to just take anymore.
Like he knows the foundation is starting to crack.
I lace our fingers together.
I always do.
I always will.
“I hate you,” I whisper.
It’s a lie.
He knows it.
