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I nod.
"You never seem nervous."
"Never?"
"You're the most put together person I know."
"No. I just seem that way." I bite my lip. That's already too much. If he knew the truth, that I'm held together by pretending and antidepressants, that I'm destined to think about all sorts of ugly ways to hurt myself...
"You never talk about it."
"What about you?" I turn toward him. Stare into those dark eyes. "You never talk about anything that bothers you."
"True." There's no admission in his voice. Only an awareness of the facts. He stares back at me. "You're thinking something."
"Nothing important." I stare at the computer screen so I won't have to take his gaze. It's too much. It's picking me apart.
"You love writing."
"Is that a question?"
"But you don't want to take a creative writing class."
"Accurate."
"Why?"
> Because my subconscious takes over when I'm writing. I can't stop myself from spilling all my ugly secrets on the page.
If I share that with people, they'll see the seams.
They'll tug at the stitches.
And then all of me will spill out.
My guts will be on the floor.
And everyone will run away.
Nobody knows I have depression. That I'm on drugs. That my thoughts go to dark places when things get bad.
Nobody knows I'm broken.
And I want to keep it that way.
"Kay." Brendon runs his fingertips over my forearm. "You okay?"
"Just thinking."
"You ever share your writing with people?"
"Grandma reads my fan fiction. She's encouraging."
"Show me something."
My cheeks flame. The thought of Brendon reading one of my bad poems... It's horrifying. "Show me something in your sketchbook. Something that isn't a tattoo mockup."
His jaw cricks. His eyes fill with surprise. "I'll jump if you do."
