𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

I know you've seen a lot of things,
that's why we get along so well,
my darling
-Gigi Perez

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

March 2016,

There came a point, after that first panic attack, where I felt Tenny grow tired of my silence. He never said it; he let me drown myself back in alcohol and he stroked my hair while I passed out on our bedsheets, but he was tired, nonetheless.

It was in the way he looked at me.

He looked at me like I was broken. Like we were broken. And something was broken: the promise that I had made him. The promise that I would be his and he would be mine. But after one touch, I had backpedaled; and I made myself distant for weeks.

And I see now that he was right about everything; we should've talked about it right then.

But things are always much clearer in hindsight.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I knock on Tenny's door. There's a bowl of popcorn in my hands, and a stack of movies Frankie let me borrow. He opens on the third knock.

His room is somehow even cleaner than the last time I saw it. Bailey's side is empty, and Tenny has all of his things lined in a row. He smells of fresh laundry, a hint of cigarette smoke lingering on his breath. But that part feels most familiar.

I smile. There's a nervous energy in the air, like it's our first time doing this, and in a way it is all new. I lift the popcorn bowl, shrug my shoulders. "I hope you like butter; I think I overdid it on the salt."

He takes it from me and sets it on the desk. "It's perfect," he says, and then his arms are around my waist. My knees wobble, and it's partly because of him, and partly because I'm terrified I won't keep my promise.

Because it's one thing to say you've stopped running, and it's another thing to do it.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

March 2016,

There was tequila on my breath. The room was spinning. I saw Tenny as a blur of tanned skin and messy hair. I tried to crawl onto him, place kisses on his neck, but he did as he had done every night since we'd unraveled, and he pulled me to his chest. He stroked my hair, and he looked at me like I was something he might break.

"Don't you want me anymore?" I said, too loudly that my aunt could have heard, and he looked down at me with furrowed brows, tightened his arm around me.

"Of course, I want you, Vio—I always want you."

"Then let me kiss you, Tenny."

He shook his head. "Not like this," he said. "Not until we talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

"About what happened," he said. "What triggered it?"

My throat burned hot. Me and Tenny, we were close—as close as I think two people could ever really be, but there were some things I never wanted to speak about. What he was asking, I could never say it out loud. I buried my face into the warmth of his chest.

"It happened to me, too," he said, and his voice was so soft, it hardly sounded like him. I looked up at him; the room was dark, but soft moonlight framed his face. I could barely make out his eyes: heavy, far away.