Work Text:
It comes as a brief thought. A niggling, tiny thought. I’m looking at your face, watching your eyes close and crinkle upwards. Watching you smile. Watching you look my way and blush.
Do I love you ?
Of course, immediately, I tell myself, yes, of course, I love you. We’re lovers. Love is in the name. We hold hands and get too close for friends.
I don’t feel it when I say it, though.
Night falls quickly. I’m not sleepy. It’s cold in my room. I pull the blanket closer. I stare at the deep gray background of our chat site. I don’t feel the need to say goodnight to you. I fall asleep thinking about someone who doesn’t exist.
When I walk into my first class the next morning, straight to your desk, bending over the back, delivering a soft kiss to your cheek, I realize there is no warmth in me. I realize I don’t feel any spark.
I realize I’m a monster.
I talk avidly to you. I pretend. I can’t do this.
It’s as we cuddle up close in our club that the reason I’m lying comes to me. Bakugou’s face comes to mind. A long painful six-month relationship. We never said I love you to each other. I thought I was unlovable. I look into your brown eyes filled with shining splendour. You don’t deserve the same. You don’t deserve to feel unloved. I kiss your eyelid. You blush and look away.
I had confessed first. Bakugou had spoken of how us two, together, wouldn’t be too bad. I felt hope bubbling in my stomach. I told him I liked him. I asked him if we could date.
Why didn’t he say no ?
Six months. No affection. Falling asleep every night thinking of his face. Thinking about us. Falling asleep crying that he wouldn’t even say he loves me.
Falling asleep wanting to kill myself because he wouldn’t call us lovers.
I thought about him all the time. I felt butterflies when I’d imagined him and I. We’d kiss and cuddle close, watching our firewood burn. Listening to the screaming blizzard just outside, rattling our windows.
I loved him. He couldn’t say the same.
I was okay maybe once a week for those six months. Once a week of each month. Maybe twice.
He’d say the odd romantic thing. He’d say he’s a jealous type. He’d say he’d be protective.
He wouldn’t say he loves me.
It was enough.
When he called it off it didn’t feel like much. I felt a little lighter, maybe. A week or so later he started talking about girls. Said he probably wasn't bi. I felt a little sting.
I can’t put you through that.
How would you feel, receiving no affection from me? Would you feel anguish? You love me, don’t you? You’d be humiliated. You’d be sad.
I can’t do that to you.
I hold your hand sometimes. It’s really sweaty a lot of the time. When it’s not, we intertwine our fingers like the roots of a tree.
A painful throb in my heart makes me want to yank my hand away and confess.
I lean over and kiss your cheek instead.
It’s my fault. I brought this onto myself. I’m pretending to be happy because I’m a fucking idiot.
Who wouldn’t get the wrong idea if someone was constantly complimenting their looks and personality? Who wouldn’t fall in love with me if I’m trying to act like the perfect boyfriend? Who wouldn’t say yes when she’s suddenly confessed to by the boy she likes?
Why did I rush in? Why did I fucking say that?
I’m so sorry.
I asked if you wanted to kiss. A real kiss. Lips to lips, hidden, in the bathrooms.
You blushed and stammered and looked away. You didn’t say no. You didn’t say yes.
I didn’t push it.
I was hovering over you at the club today. I asked you again. You said you wanted to, but it didn’t feel right now. You said maybe tomorrow. I felt more weight piling on my shoulders.
I think I’m trying to feel something for you. I keep thinking, If I kiss her, I’ll fall in love. I’ll feel a spark. I’ll want her .
I stare at my hands in disgust.
I’m stringing you along. I’m lying. I hate myself. I hate this.
Please stop loving me.
Please stop loving me and break up with me. Please stop loving me without thinking I don’t love you. Please never think that I dislike you. Please don’t make me say it.
Am I pushing you? I wonder as I stare at your last text. I try to clarify that I don’t want to make you do something against your will. You send a smiley and say I’m understanding. I feel like shit. I remember you saying you felt ugly before because past ‘friends’ told you so. I assure you that you’re beautiful.
I feel a small flutter in my stomach.
I can’t tell if it’s love or despair.
I wish something killed me right now. I could leave without hurting
you.
I’ll hold your hands tomorrow. Mine are warmer, anyways.