Damien
She doesn't let go again after that.
Her hand stays wrapped around my wrist, thumb brushing absentminded circles against my skin as we walk past students, bulletin boards, whispers. The usual. They always stare at us.
Her in my hoodie.
Me in a silence I don't bother explaining.
We don't talk about Luca.
She doesn't mention how long she hugged him. I don't mention how I noticed.
Instead, she hums. Softly. Off-key. Some stupid pop song I heard her playing at 1 a.m. last week through the wall between our rooms.
"Are you okay?" she finally asks, tipping her head up to look at me.
"Yeah."
Liar.
She frowns a little. But doesn't push. And I hate that I like that. That she knows when to pull back. That she doesn't ask questions when I clearly don't have the answers.
I glance down at her.
Her ponytail's falling apart from sleep. She's wearing mismatched socks. The sleeves of my hoodie are twice the size of her hands, and she's still clinging to me like she's worried I'll drift off into orbit without her.
I look away.
"Hey," she says suddenly, bright again. "Wanna skip classes and run away to France with me?"
"No."
"Mean."
"Be serious."
"I'm never serious." Her hand tightens a little on mine. "But if you ever say yes, I've had a bag packed since I was thirteen."
That makes me laugh. Quiet. But real.
She beams like she's won something. And maybe she has.
The worst part?
I don't want her to let go.
Even though I know I should want her to. Something I Don't Want to Talk About
Damien
She doesn't let go again after that.
Her hand stays wrapped around my wrist, thumb brushing absentminded circles against my skin as we walk past students, bulletin boards, whispers. The usual. They always stare at us.
Her in my hoodie.
Me in a silence I don't bother explaining.
We don't talk about Luca.
She doesn't mention how long she hugged him. I don't mention how I noticed.
Instead, she hums. Softly. Off-key. Some stupid pop song I heard her playing at 1 a.m. last week through the wall between our rooms.
"Are you okay?" she finally asks, tipping her head up to look at me.
"Yeah."
Liar.
She frowns a little. But doesn't push. And I hate that I like that. That she knows when to pull back. That she doesn't ask questions when I clearly don't have the answers.
I glance down at her.
Her ponytail's falling apart from sleep. She's wearing mismatched socks. The sleeves of my hoodie are twice the size of her hands, and she's still clinging to me like she's worried I'll drift off into orbit without her.
I look away.
"Hey," she says suddenly, bright again. "Wanna skip classes and run away to France with me?"
"No."
"Mean."
"Be serious."
"I'm never serious." Her hand tightens a little on mine. "But if you ever say yes, I've had a bag packed since I was thirteen."
That makes me laugh. Quiet. But real.
She beams like she's won something. And maybe she has.
The worst part?
I don't want her to let go.
Even though I know I should want her to.