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Hours later, I’m staring at his sleeping body from the end of the bed. I stand there naked for a moment, wondering how, even with minimal romance, he was able to get in my head.
How can I still love him, after all this time?
A silent tear escapes, and I wipe it before I begin gathering my things. At the sound of shuffling on the bed, I glance back at him.
He turns over, his arm splaying out, almost like he’s reaching for me. But I can’t let the romantic in me find the holes in my armor. I can’t let him in again.
That’s the thing about pain; it shapes you. It changes you.
Careful to stay quiet, I tiptoe across the room, picking up my heels along the way. My fingers find the cold doorknob and I look back at him, wishing I had the strength to leave without doing so. But I allow myself the weakness before stepping out into the hall.
I’m finally the asshole he always wanted me to be.
