It’s possible I shouldn’t have, but it’s been almost a fucking year. He says he can’t keep doing this, and the truth is, I’m not sure I can either.
Trying to swallow down my feelings is killing me. Watching him pull away every time I manage to get him a little closer is wearing me down. I want him in ways I’ve never wanted anyone or anything in my life.
You weren’t supposed to say it. You weren’t supposed to make it real.
Saying it or not saying it changes nothing. It’s still real. And I know he has to feel it. There’s no way he doesn’t. I don’t even know how to touch him anymore without my love pouring from my fingers into his skin. Without my lips spelling the words against his with every kiss.
I’d bet every dollar I have—my house, my life,everything—that he loves me too. Why else would he say that? But fuck, what is he so afraid of? Does he think I’m not in this? Does he think I can’t give him what he needs?
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he doesn’t love me at all. My stomach churns at the thought, and I press a hand to it, then dial his number again.
I don’t even know where he lives. That makes me frown. How have we been doing this for almost a year, existing in the same friend group and hanging out together, and I don’t even know how to find him?
How much has he hidden from me, and why the fuck am I trying so hard to get him to let me in when it’s so clear he doesn’t want to?
I got greedy. That’s what it comes down to. Wanting him and loving him is the best thing to ever happen to me. It’s also the hardest thing to ever happen to me.
I want more. I want everything. I want to fall asleep with him at night and wake up with him in my arms. I want to come home to him after a long shift and have him here. I want to cook dinner together and kiss him in public and hold his hand in front of our friends. I want to be as outwardly happy as all of them.
I just…
I fucking want Arlo. In all the ways he gives me already and so many more.
I dial his number again, my eyes burning when it goes to voicemail.
The screen is blurry when I type out a text and send it to him.
Me
Baby boy, please come back. I’m sorry.
But the thing is, I’m not sorry. Not really. I’m sorry he ran. And I’m sorry that he didn’t want this to be real. But itisreal. I can’t change that. And I don’t want to.
I text him again.
Me
Actually, I’m not sorry. I love you. I love you so much and I think you love me too and I wish you would just fucking let me.
I’m sorry that I told you, maybe. But not really. I’m not really sorry at all about that.
Fuck. I try calling him again, even though I know I shouldn’t. He still doesn’t answer.
The worst part is that I can’t even blame him. Not really. In some ways, we did have an unspoken rule, and I broke it.
I glance at my phone. There’s just… nothing. No call back. No read receipt. No bubbles like he’s typing. It’s silent. Like my house.
My coffee is cold, so I dump it in the sink, not even bothering to make another. My stomach is too torn up to even think about coffee now.
Fuck this entire fucking day. I’m going back to bed. My steps are heavy as I make my way to my bedroom.
It’s a mistake.
Arlo is everywhere in here. His scent is on my sheets. They’re all bunched up from this morning. His pillow is askew. He must have been gripping it during…
How can I not remember? It hasn’t even been an hour, and for some reason I can’t seem to remember how he was lying. Did he have his hands above his head? Was he wrapped around me? I can’t fucking remember.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, hand hovering over the pillow where he was lying.
