Love Letters From Hell

27 | quarter past four

♥ ♥ ♥

SOS. MEET ME AT WALGREEN'S.

I'd been debating calling him for hours after he'd left my driveway, after standing there on the phone for a while before his Uber got there, his face pale. He'd gotten into the car with a little wave for me, phone still there, brows lowered in concentration. So when his text comes in, my mind races all over the damn place. Literally.

Is he dying? Why is he at Walgreen's at 10pm? Is he getting a flu shot? Oh my god. Does he have an STD? I clamp that one down quickly. We're as safe as safe can be. I literally could be wearing a fucking scarf made out of condoms for how damn safe we are. Though, I've avoided asking whether he's been screwing other people. I mean, it's none of my business. Also, I don't want to know how I'd feel if the answer isn't no. This isn't supposed to be complicated.

Yet, I find myself quite literally storming out of my house, the moon staring down at me, it's silver glow almost accusing, as I get into my car, hair in an air-dried state of disarray, an oversized Harley Davidson t-shirt falling to my thighs over the pair of shorts I'd hastily thrown on.

This is very complicated, the moon taunts me but I ignore it as I roar the car to life.

He'd stood out on my driveway for about fifteen minutes, phone at his ear, and at one point he'd looked like he'd been punched in the gut and my instinct was to step outside but I'd decided to turn away from the window where I'd been low-key spying on him from to give him privacy.

But if someone had told me when I first met Aryan Shankar, with his arrogant grins, borderline god complex that comes with being an engineering student and his overly self-righteous attitude, that I'd one day be seeing that look of doubt, furrowing his brow, tilting his lips, darkening his eyes, I would've told them to eat fucking shit.

The fact that I manage to make him angry alone was an exciting feat for me, my swinging fist going straight through his armour. But this is different. Entirely different. Even different from the way he sometimes says my name, an exhilarating sound I've gotten deathly used to, like I'm single-handedly ripping him to shreds with just a brush of my lips. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Mira. What the fuck are you doing to me, Emira? But this is the wince that he never once shows across the battlefield and he let me see it earlier in the car. And it was exhilarating for a whole different reason. And intimidating. And it loosened my tongue enough that I said the stubborn words.

You're a good guy.

It's true though. And I've known it for a while now. But I'd never planned on admitting it. He's not, in fact, shit under my shoe. He's probably a ten times better human being than I am.

I'm very close to speeding down the highway, beaming with Saturday night activity, red lights zipping past as cars passed me, glowing against the dark blue night. I definitely don't have a seat belt on.