AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What did he say to you today, Bellamy?” I ask. I wish I was strong enough to pretend I was immune to his efforts to get me back, but I’m not. I try to couch my question in a detached tone, but I’m desperate for any crumb of information about him.
“He asked me if you were taking care of yourself, like he always does. I told him you were. And then he told me to tell you that he loves you and to give you this,” she says, handing me a small white envelope.
My heart lurches into my throat. Although I aim for nonchalance, I reach for it with greedy fingers and tear it open.
Inside, there’s a polaroid photo of us.
Pain slithers down my chest as I run my thumb over the picture. I remember exactly when it was taken.
In his apartment, one night after we’d just had sex. I’m wearing his sweater and am sitting between his legs in front of the couch, sticking my tongue playfully out at the camera. His arms are wrapped around me, holding me tightly, his hand cupping my jaw and his lips pressed against the side of my face. Even with his mouth half-obscured, you can make out his happy smile.
I turn it over and find a note written on the back.
I’ve had this photo pinned to the backseat of my car since the last time I saw you. I stare at it every night before I go to sleep, dreaming of a time when you’ll let me hold you like this again. I need you to have it so that even with time and distance you never forget how fucking obsessed with you I am.
How in love with you I am.
I miss you so fucking much.
A lump forms in my throat, choking me.
I know it wasn’t just any other night. This was taken the night we confessed that we were in love with each other.
I wish I could forget, but I can’t. Time is doing nothing to dull the suffering. If anything, it’s morphing into a throbbing ache more bothersome than just pain.
With the photo clutched in my hand, I turn on my heels and head towards my bedroom.
“Do you want a taco?” Six calls after me.
“Later,” I answer, closing the door behind me.
The lights are off and I don’t turn them on. The window beckons to me like it does every night. In the many weeks since that first night, he’s never caught me looking at him. I always wait until it’s late into the night to approach and look down at him.
I do it every night.
Usually, I don’t see anything except a corner of his sleeping bag. But on the nights where I’m lucky, I’ll look down and find that he’s rolled over in his sleep. His face will be turned to the side and visible through the window.
He looks tormented in his sleep, unlike what he looks like when he’s sleeping next to me. His features are the opposite of relaxed, his brow pressed down, his eyes wrinkled, his mouth in a flat line like he’s being haunted by nightmares.
Still, I look at him. Sometimes for up to an hour. Sitting on the reading bench in front of my window, my face resting in my palm, just looking at him.
Those nights where I get to see his face are the only ones I sleep well. Like a junkie waiting for a fix, I’m listless and on edge when I go days without seeing him.
Sometimes it feels like I’m punishing myself more than I’m punishing him. I’m hoping that this is just the part where things get worse before they get better. That I have to suffer through this part of the breakup in order to get to the next phase where in a few more weeks, maybe a month tops, he’ll be nothing more than a bad memory.
But tonight, I can’t make myself wait until he’s asleep. The need to look now is clawing at my skin and begging me to give in.My self-control has been ironclad for eight weeks; it’s fine if I wobble and look a little earlier tonight.
Taking a deep breath, I walk up to my window and look down.
The air expulses violently from my lungs when my eyes clash with his.
My heart skids to a ragged stop from the unexpected blow of seeing him. He’s standing outside right below my window, waiting and looking up at me like he knew I’d come.
My phone rings in my hand, startling me. Tristan’s name flashes across my screen.
He’s texted me hundreds of times over the past two months but I’ve never answered. This is the first time he tries to force his way past my resistance and calls.
I look back down at him to see him bring his own phone up to his ear. Adrenaline rushes through my veins as uncertainty freezes me. I let the phone ring until the call goes to voicemail.
