We’d been fighting for so long… for almost two months. Every conversation was made into a thorough argument, catalyzing yelling and tears and hurting and fears. The problem was that though both of us were screaming at each other, neither of us really said anything. We brought to light the problem but we sure as hell never tried to solve it.
Every night was a bout of shunning and more silence on the line, if the phone line was even active. Just heavy, angry breathing on your end and hard sniffles between the hot tears running down my face before the line went dead. This happened for nights at a time. No matter what I felt, the strongest was disappointment. I thought we were better than this.
Then he came along. He’d been in my life for a while now; the type that struck up conversation every now and then but never really went anywhere. Actually, I’m not sure if he came along or if I’d just gone to him… ran to him. I’m not sure what I was after, his pity or his heart? All I know was that he had been putty in my hands from the start… and I? I needed somewhere to go.
That night, he picked me up and we kicked it in his dorm. Mostly silence. I had just described to him the entire situation in the car, and now my tearducts were crusting with the hour-old tears from the drive. After about ten minutes of awkward silence, I went to the bathroom to wash my face. My eyes were bulging and red. So ugly. I went back into the room and he saw my face, a young girl ready to break and came to me… opened his arms.
I ran straight into them. I knew him well, if you considered “well” a couple of years with sparse conversations… but that night, I’d get to know him better.
After we had finished, he asked me if I was alright. I told him I was fine, but that didn’t stop a loose tear from escaping and gliding down my cheek. I hoped he didn’t notice… but then he wiped it away.
"You didn’t seem… into it."
I was, I assured him. Just thinking… I feel so… guilty.
He took my hand and held it, then drove me home. He held my hand the whole way.
The sad part was that both he and I knew that you and I were still together, despite our recent arguments.
The worst part, though? You were there, waiting for me in my room when I came home… there was a new light in your eyes, that of sadness and hope. You apologized. Took me into your arms and told me that I was beautiful and that you would never hurt me again, you promise. You would treat me like a queen like I always deserved and tonight you’d prove it to me.
We laid down together and you undressed me, kissing me so sweetly all over before going in. While you, so sweet, loving and remorseful were being so careful, taking me into your arms and making sure I knew that you loved me, I laid there hoping that you didn’t notice how unusually wet I was already… and I laid there hoping that you’d think it was because I was ready to accept your love so wholly when in truth I hadn’t gotten the chance to clean up before I reached you. I felt so disgusting, knowing that you took my tears as tears of forgiveness when I was crying because I felt so guilty.
Not one hour after I cheated on you and we made love. You didn’t even question where I was beforehand, who I was with, what I was doing. You just forgave me for everything… seemingly forgiving me for what you didn’t know, as well. I broke inside, then. The whole time we made love, all I could think was “You don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you." All I could feel was the fear racking my spine that you would find out someday.
But here I am, hoping, wishing that you’ll love me forever… and that you’ll never find out, because I know that you would never forgive me… and I can’t handle that. And here he is, driving past my bedroom window every other night, knowing that I forgot about him as fast as he came.
tagged as fiction. her.
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