NINETEEN
EMOTIONAL EVOLUTION
Four Years Earlier
Aberdeen, Washington
The thing about developing an addiction is that it happens so quietly, you don’t know how much trouble you’re in until it’s too late. It tiptoes through the rooms of your mind and body, gently inserting hooks and strings into every cell, until you don’t know where you end and it begins. And untangling that web is nearly impossible.
By the end of our second year at The Grove, my sexual encounters with Ethan have increased in frequency, but I tell myself I have it under control. Whenever we stray into areas that feel too intimate, I go cold turkey for a couple of days to remind myself he’s a luxury, not a necessity.
It’s not until I go home for the summer that it occurs to me I may be in trouble.
For the first few days, I’m fine. I sleep in. Spend time with my parents. Listen to music and pray for sunshine.
By the end of the first week, I’m antsy. Restless and horny. I think about him way too much. His face. His smell. What I wouldn’t give for just one hit of his smell.
Halfway through the second week, I take a job at the local diner, partly as a distraction to stop me thinking about him, and partly to get me out of the house so I won’t have to listen to my parents argue.
By the end of the third week, I’m in full-blown withdrawal. Irritable. Intolerant. Needing a fix of someone who’s on the other side of the country and pissed at everything and everyone that’s not him.
I guess he misses me, too, because on my way home from work at the beginning of the fourth week, I receive a text.
<Hey. Elissa just dragged me along to see Wicked on Broadway. Ashamed to say I enjoyed it. Be right back, handing in my man card. Hope your summer is less lame.>
And just like that, I’m high. Embarrassingly so. I do a little dance and skip up the stairs to the house.
Mom and Dad stop bickering long enough to welcome me home, and I head straight up to my room.
<Elissa dragged you, huh? Don’t lie. Always suspected you’re a closet music theater fan.>
A minute later, I receive a reply.
<Yes, you’ve discovered my dark secret. When I’m alone I put on the Funny Girl soundtrack & do my best Babs impersonation. Forever ashamed.>
I laugh before catching myself. Dammit. Not good.
I miss having sex with him, that’s all. Not the way he brushes my hand when he passes in the hallway. Not the affectionate glances he gives me when he knows no one else is watching. Not the way he regularly drags me into stairwells, or bathrooms, or shadowy corners of the costume storeroom just so he can kiss me.
It’s just the sex I miss.
I close my eyes and try to calm my racing pulse as I resist the urge to text him again.
Admitting you have a problem is the first step.
I admit nothing.
I don’t miss him.
I don’t.
“For crying out loud, Cassie, I’m going to start calling you Charcoal.”
Exasperation is leaking into Ruby’s tone, and even over the phone, I can imagine her eye roll.
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re playing with so much fire, you’re going to be incinerated.”
We’ve been on the phone for more than an hour. She’s told me all about a guy she met over the summer, and after she assailed me with far too many details of their sexual exploits, she started grilling me about Holt. To say she disapproves of our arrangement would be a massive understatement.
After Ethan and I started hooking up, I tried to keep it a secret from her, but everything went south a few weeks later when she came home unexpectedly to find us naked in the living room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ruby so angry. She stood there and ripped into both of us. Didn’t even let us get dressed, just stood there yelling while Holt and I did our best to cover ourselves with throw pillows.
After that, she didn’t talk to me for two days. She was mad about me getting back with Ethan, of course, but I think she was even madder that I lied about it. Ever since then, I’ve vowed never to keep stuff from her, which kind of sucks, because when she asks me if I’m having feelings for him again, I have to tell her the truth.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She makes a disapproving sound.
“What am I supposed to do, Ruby? Cut off all contact?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying to be careful. If you can’t handle being straight up fuck-buddies, then maybe you should cool it for a while. I mean, he hasn’t magically lost all his baggage, has he?”
“No, but he’s the one who started texting me. I’m not making any moves here. I’m just reacting to his.”
“That’s going to be exactly zero consolation if he gets scared again and bails.”
“I know. But he seems … different. Bolder. Happier. I don’t know.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose I can’t complain too much. You have been a lot less mopey since you started banging him. Although, you owe me money for all the condoms you’ve stolen.”
“I’ll pay you back. Plus, I’m on the pill now.”
“Really? So you two can bang bareback? Great. Can’t wait to walk in on that.”
“I’ve apologized for that a million times.”
“Doesn’t erase the mental images.”
“We weren’t even having sex.”
“You were about to. By the way, did I ever congratulate you on Holt’s cock? I meant to. Very nice. One of the nicest I’ve seen, in fact.”
Despite my newfound sexual confidence, I still manage to blush. “Well, with the sheer volume of cocks you’ve seen, that’s a huge compliment.”
“It sure is. Huuuge.”
We both laugh. I miss her so freaking much.
Unfortunately, I still miss Ethan more.
It’s Friday night, and the diner is packed. I’m getting slammed from every side, and although I like to think I can handle it, I’m getting more frazzled by the minute.
“Order up!”
I swipe hair away from my forehead and hurry to collect the plates from the pass. Back and forth. Smile and drop.
“There you go. Enjoy.”
The dinner rush seems to go on forever, and by the time I get a break at eight forty-five p.m., I’m exhausted and starving. I grab a burger and head out the back door to eat it. My phone buzzes with a message.
<Had a great idea today. Made up a T-shirt that said, “I got boned at The Museum of Natural History.” Took it to Threadless & made a million dollars. Avery bought a dozen. Dropping out of drama school to become creepy bar-hopping douche who marries hotel heiress & becomes famous for his giant schlong in grainy sex tape. It was nice knowing you. Sincerely, Ethan (aka The T-shirt Baron).>
I laugh and shake my head as I text back.
<Hate to burst your bubble, Baron, but Chandler from Friends came up w/that quote years ago. Guess you’ll have to stay in trenches w/the rest of us plebs. Sucks to be you.>
<Fuck. Ok, plan B. Get own reality show & get arrested for DUI. Then wait for movie offers. Gotta go. Booze to drink. Easy chicks to bang. (Just kidding. Only easy chick I’m banging is you. Well, not right now ‘cause you’re on other side of country, but … when you get back. Yes?)>
Goddammit.
How the hell do I reply to that?
<Maybe.>
<Don’t tease me. It s cruel. Just say yes. Or, fuck, yes.>
And I’m back to laughing.
<Fuck, yes.>
<**(Pretend I’ve invented fist pump emoticon & insert here)** See you in 4 wks. I’ll be the one w/the massive boner.> He signs it with a smiley face with the tag, <That’s my **Looking forward to getting laid emoticon**>
I laugh again. All of a sudden I’ve forgotten about the sweat running down my spine, the ache in my feet, and the smear of grill grease on the front of my shirt. Thanks to him, I’m smiling like an idiot, and when I go back inside, one of the other waitresses asks if I just got lucky in the parking lot.
My parents are yelling again. Bickering like children over inconsequential crap. Nothing. Everything. I’d go out, but as usual this summer, it’s raining. I put in my headphones and turn up my music.
I’m listening to Radiohead. Ethan always puts it on when I’m at his place. When I listen to it, I can almost pretend he’s in the room with me as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.
My phone rings, and when I see his name, my mouth goes completely dry.
God.
He’s calling me.
He hasn’t called before. He usually texts.
I shouldn’t be this excited.
I let it ring. Don’t want to seem too eager.
Two … three times it rings. I pick up on the fourth and feign nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Uh … hey. Who is this?” Good one, Cassie. Keep him on his toes.
“It’s Ethan. Your caller ID would have told you that. Or do you just have me under World’s Greatest Lay?”
Hearing his voice does strange things to me. But I’d never let him know that, so I clear my throat and try to sound bored.
“Oh, hey.”
“Hey.”
This is awkward. People who aren’t us do this.
“Why are you calling?”
“Uh … Well … I don’t know, I was just…” The final word sounds like “jusht.”
“Ethan, are you drunk?”
“Not totally.”
“Drunk is like pregnant. You either are or you aren’t.”
“Then I’m not.”
“Drunk or pregnant?”
“Both. Although, I don’t know. I’ve missed my period. Pregnancy could be a possibility.”
I smile without meaning to. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. What are the other symptoms of pregnancy? I’m worried now.”
When I close my eyes, I can almost picture him lying on his bed, tugging at his dark, unruly hair. In my vision, he’s shirtless, and the hand that isn’t torturing his hair is grazing over the grooves between his abs.
I realize that in reality, at least one hand needs to be holding his phone, but the fantasy is hotter, so I roll with it.
“Cassie?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’m having a pregnancy scare here. You’re supposed to be reassuring me.” His words run together a little. It’s kind of adorable.
“Okay, sorry. Well, I didn’t really listen in freshman health class, but I think the first sign of pregnancy is fatigue. Are you tired?”
“Yes. Very.”
“Irritable?”
“Fuck, yeah. Super irritable.” I can almost hear him frown.
“Nothing new there.”
“Shut up.”
“Case in point.”
“What else?” he asks.
“Sore breasts?”
“Hmmm. Hang on.”
I hear rustling. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off my shirt, so I can check my breasts. Wait … mmm … yes. They are a little sore.”
More fantasy images. This time of him running his hand over his naked chest.
It does nothing for my deteriorating composure. “Your … pecs are sore?”
“Yeah.”
He clears his throat. “Maybe you should come home and kiss them better.”
I freeze. Did he call for phone sex? We don’t do that. Or at least, we haven’t yet done that. I mean, he sometimes whispers stuff in class to make me blush, but he doesn’t call me to flirt.
“Cassie? Are you okay?”
Maybe.
It’s unclear.
My chest is tinged with pain.
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“Why did you?”
He pauses. “I was lying here, thinking about you, and … I just wanted to talk to you, I guess.”
“Oh.”
Ask him why. Ask him, and see if he has the balls to tell you.
Of course, I don’t. What we have is working. We both get off, and no one gets hurt. It’s completely free from “I called because I miss you,” and “I miss you because I love you.”
What we share is an emotional desert with an oasis of sex, and we’re both happy with that.
“So…” he says, in an effort to push through the awkward, “what have you been doing?”
“Uh … I got a job.”
“Yeah?”
“At the diner. It sucks, but I need the money. What about you?”
“I’ve been pulling some shifts at the construction company I worked at before I got into The Grove. Long hours, but the money’s decent.”
“Uh-huh.”
We lapse into silence. I have the strongest urge to tell him I miss him, but I can’t.
“Well, I’d better go.”
He feels it, too. This is too personal. We can’t just magically become talk-on-the-phone friends. Texting is different. We can pretend to be detached. Anything more, and we’re heading back into areas that are murky and dangerous.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.”
He laughs. “Yeah. No problem. Worked out well. I’ll text next time.”
“Okay. Sure. Bye.”
“’Night, Cassie.”
I hang up and sigh. It’s better this way.
Simpler.
Safer.
After the hideously awkward phone call, I expect not to hear from Ethan for a few days, but that doesn’t happen. He goes from texting a couple of times a week to every day. Sometimes, several times a day. Little things. Things that make me smile. That make me miss him way too much. Not sex with him. Just him. I always reply. Our text conversations are getting stupidly long. It probably would be easier if we spoke, but as with everything in our relationship, we don’t do easy.
As the end of the summer draws to a close, I’m counting down the days until I get back to Westchester. I miss everything about it: my apartment, college, my classmates, Ruby, even Ruby’s atrocious cooking.
Everything.
Especially him.
Yet again, I’d gone to bed to the sounds of my parents arguing again, so the next morning when I stumble downstairs to find them sitting calmly together at the kitchen table, I know something’s up.
“Cassie, honey. Sit down.”
Dad’s cradling a cup of coffee. Mom’s eyes are red. There’s a feeling of finality in the room that makes the air feel too thick. Nervousness prickles my spine and makes my throat tight.
“What’s going on?”
Before they say it, I know.
“Honey, your dad and I have something to tell you. We … well, we’re…”
Mom stops. Dad puts his hand over hers and stares down at the table.
“You’re breaking up.”
Mom puts her hand to her mouth and nods. I nod, too. Dad finally looks up at me.
“This has nothing to do with you, kiddo. Your mom and me … we’re not good together. We love each other, but we can’t live together anymore.”
I nod and clench my jaw. I’m not going to cry. I look at the center of the table. Concentrate on it while they tell me how it’s going to work.
Dad’s going to stay in the house. Mom’s going to move in with her sister. During the summer, I’ll switch between them. They ask if I’m okay. I tell them I am.
Mom tries to make me eat breakfast. I take one bite of my toast and feel like I want to throw up. I excuse myself to go shower.
When the spray runs over my face, I pretend I’m not crying.
I sigh and berate myself for moping. It’s stupid to feel like this. I’m twenty years old, for God’s sake. Twenty-one in just over a month. I shouldn’t feel devastated that my parents are separating, especially since I’ve known for years that they’d be better apart.
And yet, I am.
Thinking of coming home and not having them under the same roof makes me unreasonably sad. Imagining Mom moving out of the home where I was born and starting a new life without my dad makes me sad. Dad having to fend for himself for the first time since he was my age makes me sad.
As they drive me to the airport, I continue to act like I’m okay with it, but I’m really not. Maybe in a few months I will be, but not now.
I hug them good-bye and tell them I’ll see them at Christmas, and then I wonder where we’ll even be spending it this year. Will we all get together? Or will I have to shuttle between them?
The rest of my trip passes in a blur. I get on a plane. Doze. Get off. Sit glassy-eyed waiting for my connection. Get on another plane.
I feel displaced.
Lonely.
I spoke to Ruby last night. Explained what had happened. I tried to sound blasé, but she could hear something in my voice. She offered to cut her weekend short and pick me up from the airport, but I couldn’t do that to her. She’s happy with her new guy and deserves to savor the last few days of freedom before classes start. The last thing she needs is to have to console the latest victim of America’s epidemic divorce rate.
When the plane lands, I wait until everyone else has passed before grabbing my backpack and making the long walk to the exit. The flight attendants are annoyingly perky as they bid me good-bye and tell me they hope I’ll fly again with them soon. All around me in the airport, people are hugging and kissing, greeting loved ones. I pause to watch them, partly because they’re blocking my way, but mostly because just observing them makes me feel like some of their happy might rub off on me.
At any rate, I’m not in any hurry to take a cab back to my empty apartment.
When the family in front of me finally moves, my breath catches as I see a familiar figure standing on the other side of the arrivals area. Tall. Unruly hair. Dark clothes. Pensive face. Tense and nervous, like he’s unsure if I’ll be mad about him being here.
I’m not. In fact, I’m so happy, I could cry.
He must recognize my sappy expression, because he pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks toward me.
He looks good. So very good.
He moves sinuously, but there’s a repressed urgency in his gait. Like he’s forcing himself to not run over and swing me around in front of all of these people.
There’s so much I want to do to him. So much I want to say.
When he stops in front of me, he takes my backpack and places it on the ground. Then he wraps his arms around me and gently pulls me against him. I hug his neck, and when he says, “I’m sorry about your parents. That fucking sucks,” I press my forehead into his shoulder to stop myself from crying
The people around us slowly dissipate, and I just stand there and let him comfort me. As much as I’ve craved sympathy today, until this moment I didn’t realize how much I needed it to be from him.
The rest of the world melts away as he holds me and strokes my hair, and when he whispers, “I’ve missed you,” and I whisper it back, the glass-jawed delusion that we’re just fuck-buddies goes down for the count.
By the time we get back to my apartment, it’s late and I’m exhausted. Ethan opens the door and carries my suitcase to my bedroom. Then he turns around and hugs me. He’s so warm and feels so good, I sag against him, almost drifting off. Only the thick layer of travel grime that covers me from head to toe prevents me from fully relaxing.
“I need to shower.”
“Okay. You want me to make you something to eat?”
“We have no food.”
“I could go out and get something.”
He needs to stop with the sweetness. I’m in enough trouble here as it is.
“No, thanks.” I push him to sit on my bed. “Just … stay. I won’t be long.”
I grab my robe and head into the bathroom. When the warm water hits my skin, it feels so good I moan. I lather everything twice, then get out and brush my teeth.
When I get back to the bedroom, he’s exactly where I left him. He watches as I approach, and the way he stares tells me how much he wants me. The familiar rush of power is back, but it’s accompanied by something else. A deeper need. Something I haven’t let myself feel for a long time. It makes my skin prickle and my heart flutter, because I know this is one of those moments that is going to define something.
Me.
Us.
The thought makes me freeze in my tracks. We’ve been here before, and in the past, I was always the one who put myself out there. Pushed us to be more.
Not this time.
If he wants it, he’s going to have to ask for it. If he doesn’t, I have to walk away before my heart gets even more scarred.
I wait. He barely hesitates before standing and walking to me. He takes my hands and pulls me to him. Cups my face. Kisses me. Gently. So gently. Warm lips and soft tongue. Within seconds, an aching heat is twisting in my veins, but I don’t let it take over. He needs to steer us this time. If I hang back, I can decide if I’m willing to go where he leads.
His kisses become hungrier, but still deliberate. It’s like he knows any misstep will make me run, and he’s determined not to let that happen. He leaves one hand on my face as he tugs at the belt on my robe and slowly unthreads it. Fingertips brush across my chest as he pushes it open. I feel too naked, but I stand there and fight the fear as he claims every inch of terrified, goose-pimpled skin in a way that’s so much more than sexual.
He pushes the robe off my shoulders, and it slumps to floor. More of me exposed.
He takes his time. Mouth follows fingers. Lighting fires, then dousing them in kerosene. Branding himself all over me. I’m so dizzy with it, I have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. He takes the hint and picks me up before he lays me on the bed and continues what he’s doing without missing a beat. He kisses across my chest, then down my stomach as his hands keep my breasts warm.
Hot breath sparks across everything it touches, and he moves lower. Pushes at my knees. Opens me up to him and moans as he puts his mouth on me. Muffled whispers tell me how much he’s been fantasizing about this. I arch into him as he shows me what he’s been dreaming about. All the ways he knows he can speak to my body.
Before long, I’m panting, trying to keep myself together even as he’s determined to make me fall apart. I squeeze my eyes shut and gasp. I’ve been dreaming about this, too, but the reality is so much more powerful. I grip his hair. Clench and release. Faster and harder, in time with his rhythm.
This is different than how we usually are. I want to keep my eyes closed and pretend nothing has to change, but he doesn’t let me. I’m arching so hard I’m nearly levitating, when he stops.
I try to grab him. To make him finish.
The bed dips as he stands.
I open my eyes as panic tightens my chest.
But he’s just removing his shoes. He drops them heavily before tugging off his socks.
He clears his throat. I think it’s nerves, but no. He wants my attention on his face, not on his feet. When I’m looking at him, he undresses slowly, first by pulling off his shirt. When it hits the floor, he pauses. Now he’s nervous. He’s never done this before. Become voluntarily bare.
I watch in awe.
He keeps looking at me, as if he’s trying to prove himself.
He unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down, then shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s stripping for me. He’s down to just his boxer-briefs. They hug every long inch.
I realize just how little I’ve looked at him during our sexual encounters. Watching him like this seems almost wrong. Like I shouldn’t because he’s not mine. Every feature is so familiar, but it’s like a work of art I’ve admired from afar, knowing it will never hang on my wall.
And yet, this little display is telling me he wants me to own him.
He pushes down his underwear, and then, it’s just him. Gloriously naked him. He’s self-conscious, but he lets me stare. Does he see the way all my arteries dilate, sending crawling heat all over my body?
How totally ill-equipped I am to deal with how much I want him?
Every part of him.
The silence stretches around us. He’s standing there naked, silently asking permission to be more, and I don’t have the courage to answer him.
My heart rate escalates, and I lie back on the bed. Within seconds, he’s there, warm and comforting. He kisses my face. Pulls my hand away from my eyes.
“It’s late,” he says. “You’re tired. Tell me if you want me to go.”
I don’t want him to go.
“It’s not that late,” I say.
“Is it too late?”
I open my eyes. He’s looking down at me, vulnerable and intense, and he’s not asking about numbers on a clock.
My mind races as I try to figure out what to say.
I don’t want to be this confused, but our relationship is like a Chinese rope puzzle, and every strand that pulls us closer together also pulls us apart. Will there ever be a time when we have the forward without the back?
He kisses me, and only his sharp inhale tells me he’s anything but completely calm.
“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispers into my lips, as if he can will me to say the words. “I need it to not be too late for us.”
He kisses my neck, and I close my eyes as I try to think.
This is the moment. The one where I get to choose. From here, my future branches into two distinct timelines. In one, I pull him on top of me and let him show me the difference between fucking and making love. In the other, I push him away and resign myself to forever wondering, “what if?”
I’m not the gambling type. I’ve never understood how some people can get addicted to games in which the probability of losing is so high. They’re not stupid people. They know the odds aren’t in their favor, yet they risk more than they can possibly afford to lose.
Right now, I think I finally get it.
Losing isn’t what drives them. It’s the glimmer of that one spectacular win. The jackpot that’s painted with bright lights and a giant check from The Bank of Happily Ever After. That’s the rush that keeps them putting their hands in their pockets. The thrilling, heart-pounding moment the second before the ball drops, or the card turns, or the tumbler falls into place.
“Cassie?”
A thousand to one. Two thousand. Seventy thousand.
The first number is almost irrelevant. It’s the one that makes people take the risk. That elusive, magical one.
“Please, look at me.”
I do. I look and I see. The well-meaning heart of him. The damaged and skittish ego.
I kiss him, hard. He grunts in surprise before kissing me back.
I kiss and tug at him. Pull him on top of me. Try to step back over the “just fucking” line and see if I feel safer there. I grab at his hips and attempt to pull him to where I want him. He tries to resist, but I’m insistent, and I lift my hips and slide against him until he’s breathing so hard, he sounds stricken.
“Fuck, Cassie, wait…”
He drops his head as I stroke him and wind his body so tight, he has no choice but to ease into me to relieve the burn.
The second he enters me, I realize I’m not remotely prepared for how good he feels. How my body sings as it swells around him.
Somewhere between the last time we fucked and our endless text conversations, I lost the ability to compartmentalize my feelings, and now ‘just fucking’ isn’t even an option anymore. He lets out a long moan as his hips finally rest against mine. Then he stops and breathes shallowly for a few seconds.
Is it just as scary for him? Or does he feel that small thrill of possibility?
I try to move against him, but he holds me down.
“Stop. Wait.”
He takes a deep breath and pulls back, then presses in again. Slow and determined. He’s not fucking me. He wants me to feel it. The way his whole body is trying to tell me his intentions.
“Cassie, open your eyes.”
I do. His face is more naked than his body’s ever been. Every tender thrust shows in the way his mouth moves without making noise. He’s not even trying to hide how he’s feeling.
“I want to be with you. Please. Don’t make me beg, because I’m desperate enough to do it, and I swear to God, it won’t be pretty.”
He moves faster. Lifts my leg to his hip. Slides deeper and watches my reaction. Holds my gaze. Silently begs me not to look away.
“Please say something.”
His voice is tight. Low and rumbling. Punctuated by his movements. What he’s doing. Physically. Emotionally. It’s too much.
“Just say yes,” he says, breathy and panting. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to live without you. Aren’t you tired? Of pretending you don’t want it all? I really think I can do it this time. Us. Please, I want to try.”
His movements are becoming erratic, but he still doesn’t look away. I dig my fingernails into his back, tug on his hair, grab his hip as I arch and crest.
“Cassie, please.” He’s barely hanging on. I’m the same. I can’t say no to him. He might be the worst gamble I’ve ever made, but he also might be my one. The one. How can I not take a chance on that?
“Yes.”
I hold on long enough to see the exquisite relief in his smile, then I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, and I’m flying so high and fast, I babble against his shoulder. Repeat the word “yes,” over and over again. Hold my breath as my whole world spasms in perfect unison with my orgasm.
I’ve never felt anything like it.
Even at our hottest and most desperate, it’s never been this incredible. I’m still reeling when he buries his head into my neck and groans.
“Cassie—I … God … I love you. I love you.”
I grip him as he shudders. I stroke his hair and hold him as I wait for us both to stop shaking.
So many emotions twist and rage in my veins, sparking and pounding in a rush that seems like it’s never going to end.
When it finally ebbs away, he’s still wrapped around me. Still inside.
I don’t let him go. I’m incapable.
For so long, I’ve tainted my vision against him. Closed my eyes to his beauty and my ears to his charm. But my heart …
I tried to harden it against the things I didn’t want to feel, and yet, here I am, feeling them anyway.
For all its amazing strength, our hearts are made of eggshells, and sometimes all it takes is someone you’d almost given up on declaring their love for it to crack wide open.