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And standing still is such a struggle that before I can think about it, my newly-freed hand finds his t-shirt and grips it tightly.
“Yes,” I whisper, my cheek tingling where he’s touching me. “They’re all jerks like you are.”
“Like I am.”
“Like you, they can’t be trusted.”
“No.”
“They’re all assholes.”
“They are.”
“And dangerous.”
His eyes appear liquid then. “Like a bandit.”
My winged heart skips a beat and I can’t help but whisper, “That’s what I call it.”
“Call what?”
“My diary.”
“What?”
Twisting his t-shirt, I reply, “I call it Bandit now.”
His lips part and a long breath escapes, misty and warm. “Why?”
“Because I was trying to turn something bad in my life into something good,” I tell him, my neck craned up, my eyes flicking over his downturned face. “Reform it, if you will. Because every time I thought about you, I got so angry. I got so furious and enraged. And it was so exhausting. I didn’t want to feel that anymore. I didn’t want to be sick with hate. So I named the most precious thing in the world to me after you.”
“You did.”
“Yes. Turning something bad into something good. I read that in a book.”
And as soon as I did, it reminded me of him. So I got myself a new diary. The one whose color matched the color of his eyes. Dark brown with red hues.
The only non-pink thing in my room.
“Did it help?” he asks, his thumb on my jaw now, only millimeters away from my lips.
“Not yet.”
“It’s not going to.”
“It might. I haven’t lost hope.”
“You should.”
I don’t know what’s happening.
But everything feels so… lazy and heavy and lethargic and hot.
His breaths. My breaths.
His eyes. My skin.
His thumb on my cheek, so close to my parted mouth now.
