Pursuit of the Whole

XXIII. Paint Me the Villain

His face refuses to leave my mind.

The first thing I remember was those gravity-drawn shoulders. It had always been held high, but today it exposes all of its weakness.

Then above those heavy shoulders, a quivering pale lip exposes itself. It was as if he wanted to say something more, but he forced himself to hold it back.

Travel up a bit more, and you could see those eyes. The type of eyes that makes you lost.

Marcelo is that type of guy.

He makes you feel like you're close, become that friend you haven't seen in years. But, it's all a facade. There's a layer of bricks in front of him.

With the dangerous information about his mother, I could see past one of the bricks.

It feels heavy.

The brick in my hand.

Now, I wonder what's the purpose of telling me that vital piece of information.

Pity? Guilt?

Is it possible that he's trying to win my favor by bringing up his dead mother? And what a coincidence that hunters killed his mother.

If that's his plan, it's genius.

If not, then what else is he telling me?

My hands tighten against the wheel, and I let out a deep breath. I could only see two long strips of lines and a dotted one in the middle on the road. The middle dots somehow merge.

My mind is on autopilot.

I'm pretty sure I'll wonder how I got home later on.

I let out a light exhalation, and my grip only tightened. There's a light melody in the background, but I couldn't hear it.

Then, the realization occurs.

Does Marcelo really like me?

When that question crosses, my grip lightens. There's an uncomfortable sensation inside my chest as if someone thrust their hand inside and grabbed my heart.

There's a possibility that Marcelo doesn't like me at all.

He's forced to like me.

My thoughts went back to the first time I met Marcelo.

It was dark at the party.

There were colorful lights everywhere.

The atmosphere was as drunk as the most wasted person in the room.

There was a pain in my feet because of the heels and discomfort inside my stomach.

When I bump into Marcelo, the discomfort only surges into my chest.

His eyes.

Green.

Such a beautiful color.

There were so many emotions behind his eyes at once, and with such little time, I couldn't decipher them all.

The harder I thought about it, the more I had to acknowledge it - the anger.

Marcelo hates me.

Not me.

But having to be bonded to someone like me.

I wonder if he thinks it's a punishment. If the thought had ever crossed his mind. That, perhaps, he did something wrong in his past life.

Then, would it be a relief?

How someone like me doesn't want him?

Then, he could go back to his pack when the year is up. Tell them that he tried. How he wanted me, but I didn't want him.