One Last Miracle [complete]

XXIV

XXIV

twenty-nine days...

The books, the movies... they all lie. Losing your virginity isn't a calming, romantic experience. There's no sunshine and rainbows. No oh-my-god-this-is-amazing explosions of lust. It's all lies—glorified, romanticised lies.

The truth is that sex is painful. It hurts. And it doesn't get better, only becoming more manageable.

Even if it's with the right person. There is no exception to the rule.

The whole time, I cry.

James does everything he can to make me feel comfortable. But it doesn't help.

It affects him too. He doesn't enjoy it. Not in the slightest.

Somehow, though, we both manage to fall into a fitful sleep afterwards.

The next morning, I can still feel the pain—albeit dulled. The last thing I want to do is move though. Underneath me, James shifts, but he doesn't wake up.

His bare chest is warn against my cheek. His heart beat is a gentle, constant thrum in my ear. Shifting closer, I wrap my arm tighter around his waist. Unconsciously I trace his shoulder with my finger, where the slight portion of the tattoo lies.

I tip my face up, my view limited due to the angle. But, even then, I can see that in his sleep he looks relaxed. If anyone was to walk into the room, they'd see nothing out of the ordinary. Just a boy and a girl tangled next to each other in a bed—the words cancer and deaf far, far away.

His skin looks darker than usual, his eyes lashes fanning across his cheeks with each breath he takes. His hair is standing all over the place like he's dragged his hand through it hundreds of times.

For whatever reason, the part of me that should be uncomfortable that I'm lying naked next to an equally naked guy is gone. On some level, it makes sense. After everything between us, James has seen me at my most vulnerable—emotionally. Physically pales in comparison. Besides, the sheets are covering us, so I'm not exposed beyond my lower legs.

Judging by the fact that little light streams into the room, I know it's early. James won't wake for a while, so I know I have time to get myself together before the inevitable conversation. Priority, right now, is getting to the toilet though.

Which is easier said than done.

Sometime in the night we wove around each other. My hand is over his waist, my leg thrown over his. Somehow, he's managed to throw his own leg over mine.

I'm stuck.

He'll notice if I move. He's a light sleeper, that I've learned, waking up at any slight movement—and amazing alert in the blink of an eye. Really though, with the way we're tangled, even someone in a coma would wake.

Surreptitiously as a I can, I wriggle back, ducking underneath his arm. I note every hitch in his breath, pausing every time his eyelashes flutter. Except, even as I move to the edge of the bed, he doesn't wake. I breathe a sigh of relief, dropping my legs off the side of his bed. The floorboards don't creak under my feet,

I can't help but feel like I'm escaping. In all the movies, after every one-night stand, the girl runs out in the middle of the night, scrambling for clothes. Though I have no intention of leaving, the situation feels uncomfortably similar, despite the circumstantial differences—and as I make my way down the barely-lit hall, towards the bathroom, it's all I can think about.