''You call him because you have to, because you weren't perfectly honest. He comes over with a bouquet of flowers, coincidentally your favorite ones. You prepare two bottles of wine and two glasses on the coffee table. You both sit on the two opposite ends of the couch. You tell your story, from the very beginning til the end. He would nod at certain parts, but he would sit there without moving. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't comfort you, he doesn't even try to take you in his arms, but instead he recollects the soaked tissues from your hand and replace them with new ones. He fills your glass once again. You both end up falling asleep on the couch. In the middle of the night, he wakes you up and leads you to your bed with his arm around your waist. He pulls the cover over your body and lays beside you on top of the cover. You pull him against you and you bury your face in his neck. You ask yourself if it was a selfish act. But you justify yourself that being selfish is what makes you happy. You get a sense of comfort, a sense of safeness as you feel his cheek against your forehead and the collar of his shirt against your chin. It was all new to you, the closeness. You are convinced that you have the answer, determine to say the least. You slowly fall asleep with only the scent of his clothes filling your head. It's clean and fresh. Something sweet to remember this moment by. But the next day you wake up only to find him gone. Your head starts to gather and put together the events from night before. The answer you had is not valid anymore because in the end, he still doesn't belong to you.''
.......
While cleaning my hard drive today, i found this short story that i wrote 4 years ago for my english class. Who knew i would be my own fictional character. I haven't been myself lately. I've let my emotions and my selfishness get the best of me which, with all honesty, i'm not very proud of. I hate being this way :/
