Be My Erasthai

Provocation

Adalia

"Darling, here let me fix your hair," Paris's sultry voice streamed through my ears, and my glass of water paused on my lips. The thirst in my throat was long forgotten as I reclined my head to stare at Luke and Paris.

Paris was strumming her pink-colored acrylic nails through Luke's dirt blond hair, tossing and rearranging, like she was creating a masterpiece. When in fact, Luke's hair was neither messy nor looking better from all her incessant touching.

"Thank you, love, you're always so thoughtful," Luke smiled, placing a quick peck on Paris's cheeks.

Paris giggled and shoved Luke lightly, "Stop it, I barely ever do anything."

I bit my lips and resisted the urge to gag—or so I'd like to believe. But no really, the reason I'm biting my lips is to resist the tears from falling.

When I first heard Luke and Paris were dating, I consistently cried myself to sleep for a week. That's how bad it got. However, after Addy took me to her usual 'questionable places', and helped me recover from my heartbreak. I promised myself that I'd never end up like that a second time. I'd try and forget Luke, I won't cry again.

But right now, I can't proudly make that proclamation. Seeing Luke and Paris flirt front and close has become a different pain. It feels like someone is constantly jabbing a knife into my chest with no mercy, or any sign of stopping.

I thought I was well on my way to getting over Luke, so why? Why do I still feel this crazy pain in my chest? Every time I swear that my feelings for him were six feet under, they so easily spring back up, and I'm drawn back to where I first started. I'm stuck in a never-ending cycle of trying to get over Luke, and secretly still hoping that I wasn't delusional, that he does like me back.

My situation could be described in one word; hopeless.

I should just excuse myself for a bit and go cry in the bathroom. Maybe then I'd feel better. Or better still I should call Addy to come sneak me out of here and we can go somewhere else.

Clenching my fist, I decided to get up, but before I could even think about moving, my chair was suddenly pulled sideways. The screeching sound made by the chair was so loud and purposeful that everyone at our table–and the people at the next table all stopped to stare.

Zayn had pulled my chair incredibly close to his.

He leaned his face into mine as his fingers brushed the loose strands of hair out of my face. "You aren't eating. Is something wrong?" He pondered.

"No...I just don't have any appetite..." My voice shook as I responded, and I had no idea if it was because I was on the verge of crying, or if it was because Zayn's touch was giving my heart unimaginable relief.

He cupped my face and caressed my bottom eyelids with his thumbs. "Is it that you don't have any appetite, or rather, something is making you lose your appetite." His gaze was scrutinizing, boring into the depths of my heart, almost like he could read my mind. I held my breath, hoping he couldn't actually read it, and that he wouldn't poke for more questions.

To my relief, Zayn didn't push the matter, as he retreated a bit. Then he reached for something on the table. "Let's fix your appetite shall we?" he said as he pulled his plate so that it was closer to me.

On one of his plates was a penne pasta, and on another was a bruschetta. He picked up a fork and brought the seasoned penne pasta to my mouth. "Here, why don't we try eating the small things first?"

My eyes widened, and I was dumbfounded. Zayn was going to feed me. The thought of it made my cheeks red, as I opened my mouth to take in the pasta.