Chapter Text
It was hard to stick to a script.
Here I was, hiding myself away when I was supposed not to care much about him. It didn't feel great to force myself out of misery just to heal the right way. It didn't feel safe to keep myself away from the source of my suffering, because I couldn't keep track of his every moves, because I felt vulnerable when he wasn't near. And that sounded ridiculous. Vulnerability never showed itself through a dead crowd.
I didn't know anymore.
It was probably the thoughts of him haunting my very being until the end of the year that scared me, the mere feeling of his eyes piercing through mine in places where I wouldn't be able to look away, because he felt like hiding his bravery there. Because he felt like offering every kind of curiosity to my starved self, not knowing that my stomach was already full of it. It wasn't just scary, it was irritating too.
I didn't need his curiosity to burn a hole through my heart. I didn't need his interest to find a home right where all my cravings were hiding.
I craved him. Like someone could crave air under desperate situations, like someone could also crave air under simplicity.
It was hard to act like sensing his eyes sting my skin was something normal. Heck, it felt livid. I could taste the amusement that flowed through each of his words when he made a joke. When I laughed along because loosing my cool was acceptable, and expected, and overwhelming, and that he always found the way to add more just to make me laugh a bit longer.
I had to stick to it.
I couldn't care more about him. It was a surprise to see him in places I didn't expect him to be, to have to watch him go past my figure when I sounded too loud, or too much, or too present. When the only thing that could be stated was me being a mess, a mess that he kept messing with whenever he felt like it.
I knew he didn't feel anything. I knew that for him, burning at the mere feeling of eyes staring and stinging your skin wasn't closer to anything enjoyable. That sensing yourself melt under a soft laughter that never reached past lips couldn't move your world for days, or even for weeks. Nothing could be enjoyable about sweating a tone and hoping that not even a droplet would be able to tell stories that couldn't be shared. Nothing could be enjoyable about burning because a simple presence sounded too much, too little, and everything that came in between.
It was probably a bad joke.
I had to remember. To stick to the script. To not let myself fall to the glimmer that sometimes flashed through his pupils when he would notice me. To not let myself move wrong when he would try to be oblivious, shifting just to have a better look at me.
His smiles didn't mean shit. His bad puns were even worse. He didn't feel anything.
He didn't.
I had to stick to the script, because I didn't need to enjoy the attention that a friend would give, because I couldn't enjoy attention when I didn't know what it felt like, to really be the interest of someone. Feeding myself left overs, trying to convince myself that it was a decent meal couldn't trick my stomach. It was humiliating, to watch myself twist words over a boy that wouldn't look my way.
He was nice, and that was all. He was distracting and charming and fun, and I surely coudn't get past that.
But I had to stick to the script. To free myself from a burden I put upon my own heart.
Because there was no other way I could feel alive than through someone's eyes. But now, I needed to be alive through my own.
I had to stick to it.