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"None of your business," he grunts, his fist making contact with the table.
"So there is someone," I smile. "Then you should know the feeling very well, Michele. When dying is better than seeing the love disappear from their eyes. When death is theonlyoption before they can be with someone who isnotyou."
He's quiet as he mulls over my words.
"And you say we're not alike, Noelle," he laughs. "Yet there's also a difference," he says.
"Hm?" I lean back, observing him.
For all my initial apprehension, there's a certain brand of freedom in speaking without a filter—in going all out knowing no one is there to judge you.
"I don't think that's love. Call it all you want, but it's not love."
"Really? You just said it's a foreign notion for you but you're going to school me in the meaning of love?"
He shrugs.
"I can understand the concept of love in its abstract form. I've seen it in the wild, so to speak," his mouth pulls up. "There's always an essential ingredient to it."
My confusion sparks his amusement as he gives me a full smile.
"Altruism. Love is love because you put the other first, regardless of your own well-being. Regardless of whether their happiness makesyouhappy."
I still, his words hitting me in the chest and making me reel.
He is right. I know he is. Yet I cannot admit it to myself.
"So when you say love is a foreign notion to you, what you really mean is that altruism is the foreign bit, isn't it?"
"Indeed. And I rather think we have that in common."
"If it's not love… Then what is it?" I ask before I can help myself.
"Obsession."
His elbow on the table, he rests his cheek on his hand as he looks at me with pity in his eyes—almost as one would look at an ignorant child.
"We don't love, you and I," he mentions sadly. "We possess. In life, or in death," he adds casually. "We would rather destroy their lives than see them better off, isn't that the truth?"
"I'd never want to see Raf destroyed," I shake my head.
"No, but you wouldn't mind seeing him dead."
"Only if I'm dead too," I whisper.
"How tragic," he mocks.
"All great romances end in tragedy."
"And that's what you want, isn't it? You want a great romance for the books. But does he want that too?"
He has me cornered with that question.
Instead of answering, I swing my attention to my glass of wine, bringing it to my lips to take a sip.
"You're in denial, I can see." He leans back, satisfied with his line of interrogation. "So far you've only told me whatyouwant. You don't care about what he wants, do you?"
"You're suddenly the moral authority?" I challenge.
