Word Count: 1,240
Type: Kind of creepy and dark. More like poetry, in a way?
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I took a step forward to see Troye's unmistakable silhouette in the dim, kitchen lighting. I could see his hands moving swiftly from where I stood in the doorway, neither inside the warm room nor outside of it. All was silent except for the sound of coffee being poured slowly into his cup. He placed the coffee pot back onto the counter.
"No need to stand there," he said to me, not turning around. He hadn't looked at me once since I had walked in.
My bones were tense but I took an easy step forward. I caught his eyes in reflection of the kitchen window but he still didn't look at me. I watched silently as he stirred the coffee with a spoon, twirling it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. I squinted my eyes as he turned around, leaning against the kitchen counter as his gaze settled to the black window. He still didn't look at me.
His features were soft and he seemed relaxed as he held the steaming cup in his hand. I took a daring step forward, only a few inches. Some part of me wanted him to turn around. It wasn't until then that he turned his head, his unsettling eyes falling on me. In the hot, steam filled room, I shivered. I could tell he noticed as he raised the cup to his lips. A tiny drop of black coffee spilled over his lips, dribbling down slowly through the cracks. He pursed them as he caught me staring. I turned quickly, suddenly interested in the stars outside the window.
I listened as Troye took in a breath and stood up straight. As he walked by me, I got a whiff of his breath, bitter from coffee. His arm brushed against my sleeve and I pulled it away quickly, my skin sprinkling.
The last thing I heard was a snicker before he left.
~
I sat on the cold sheets, staring at the blank bedroom walls. Water drops drummed against the roof above me, in some ways oddly calming. The pit of my stomach felt hollow and my breath was motionless as I swallowed. I heard Troye's footsteps walk by the closed door. I turned my head and stared at the handle. I saw my reflection staring back at me, warped and brassy. I hated myself for this. I hated myself for wanting to follow the man who scared me.
I had an urge to be next to him, to touch him, to feel his hot breath close to me. But at the same time, I was terrified. I couldn't be a meter's distance from him or my legs would start to shake, my breath trembling with sweaty fingers gripping my grimy jeans.
I stood up from my bed, opening the door and getting out of my suffocating room. I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, peeling my eyes from the direction of Troye's room.
I looked around me. A bed was in the corner, a closet in the other. Faded and washed clothes were draped over a folding chair. I looked up at Troye who stood in front of the window, white curtains swaying lightly by the slight draft. I wasn't in the bathroom.
I was in his room.
Troye turned around, cocking his head as a smirk played on his perfect, pink lips. The dim and stormy lighting only made his face more mysterious and indescribable. I swallowed the tense air, feeling my heart beats getting faster. He didn't budge from where he stood, and I knew he wasn't going to. So I started walking.
The stretch of carpet between the bedroom door and the window never felt so long and treacherous. I hated the way his lips curled as I got closer. I hated how his eyes squinted, laughed at me. I hated how he knew every little thought. Every little thought I had about him, he somehow knew.
I hated him.
And I hated myself for wanting him.
I wanted his large, rough hands. I wanted his blue eyes that swirled with lust. I wanted his dark red lips that cracked when he bit them. I wanted his brown curls that fell into his eyes. I wanted his breath that smelled like coffee and cigarettes. I wanted him.
And that wasn't all.
I wanted his hands to brush my skin and his fingers to trace my jaw. I wanted his eyes to close in satisfaction when I got close. I wanted to feel his lips move against mine. I wanted to stroke his hair, feel each strand. I wanted to taste the coffee and cigarettes.
I gulped as I realised that he was only inches away. I felt goosebumps on my neck as the air he breathed out touched my skin. I closed my eyes. He chuckled under his breath. My cheeks got hot as I opened my eyes again, finally looking directly at the man I was terrified by.
"You seem nervous," his velvety voice poured from his mouth with ease. It took him no effort to drive me mad. I gulped, holding back from answering.
He inched closer until his lips were almost touching my nose. If I tilted my head up just a little, I could kiss him. But I didn't budge, and neither did he.
"What do you want?" he whispered. I could feel sweat dripping down my forehead. My breathing was uneven as I opened my mouth.
"Y-you."
I watched him smirk and his finger grazed over my bottom lip, making it tremble. The rain splashed against the window pane. The lightning made his slightly translucent skin glow. The room looked fuzzy and my head felt like mashed potatoes every time I tried to think. So I didn't think.
He leaned in and I twisted my neck, trying to reach his lips but he slipped away from my grasp, laughing. The little bitch. I took a step back as he walked out of the room, turning back to give me a look that made me want to throw up. I stood in the corner as my eyes stung, alone in the dreary room. He tricked me. He made me admit the one thing I hated myself for. I didn't realise I had been crying until my shirt was clammy and wet. My face felt like it had an inch of glue on it, so I went to the bathroom.
This time I really was in the bathroom, and I swore to myself I'd stay in there forever. Forever would be nice. I'd never have to see Troye again or ever think about him and his deep, sexy voice and the feeling that crept over me when he got close.
My jeans felt tight and so I looked down, embarrassed at myself. I ripped them off, not bothering to wonder how long it'd been like that, or if Troye had noticed.
I found a slip of paper on the counter and did my best to find a pen in the messy drawers. Maybe this would help.
I wrote on the grimy surface in shaky, cursive handwriting. I sat on the tiled floor for a while, just looking at it.
Falling in love is supposed to be fun, right? Like dreaming, almost. At least, that's what I've heard. It's too bad that this all feels like a nightmare.
I ripped the note into shreds.
