Overwritten

26 ; found

"Why?" the question was sharp, blunt, and filled with hostility. As Scott frowned, his grip tightening around my hands, pulling me closer he had seemed to return to the robotic boy I was used to and his piercing glare, "Why would you suggest something as idiotic as that!?"

I don't know what I had expected from Scott Preston.

"I..." all my words muddled together, a sharp sting at the back of my eyes. I tried to pull my hands away, but he kept his grip, tightening around it and glaring at me. He had flipped like a switch, anger staring me down mere inches from me. Whatever had been between us seemed to disappear. Perhaps he had been so medicated he hadn't even known what he had said.

I didn't even know what I had said.

Was I too tired? Who knew what time it was at this point. It had been moronic to think he was different, moronic to think I was different. Moronic to even suggest something so idiotic as that. After all, what would he gain? What would I gain? This wasn't some realization, it was a delusion.

I began to cry.

Why? Perhaps I was tired. Perhaps I was an idiot. Perhaps old Scott was right about me all along. I shut my eyes, unable to stand the cold glare from him. Perhaps things were just supposed to be how they were.

"Stop," Scott said, his words sharp and angry. But I wouldn't stop, I couldn't stop. I felt as though when everything had started to make sense, it all unraveled. I squeezed my eyes closed harder, refusing to look at him as I knew that look he would have. Disapproval. He loathed me, he truly did. I could feel his hands pull me closer again, trying to get me to look at him through teary eyes, "Stop crying... P-Please..."

Please.

There was a softness to the word, and I couldn't remember too many occasions I had heard him say it either. For a brief moment, I paused. Had I heard him say it? My breaths were shaky, but something seemed to have changed again. With great hesitancy and fear of the boy I would face, I opened my eyes, wiping some tears on the shoulder of my shirt.

"Sorry..." my voice was shaky, my breathing shuddered. I couldn't even tell the emotion he was facing. His grip loosened, and instead of anger, concern was all that was plastered. He didn't seem angry, yet every bone in my body felt on edge in front of him, "I meant... with. With what you said... said earlier... I-"

"Stop," the way he said it was almost a whisper, kind, soft. Not angry. Not frustrated. Not impatient or annoyed. He had told me to stop many times before, but this just felt different. Everything felt different. I tried to grasp what could be going inside his head, scanning his eyes for something, anything at all. He held my hands up, and I realized now the close proximity between us, "You have nothing to apologize for... I should not have snapped at you. I don't want to see you cry. Please,"

"I..." I wanted to say something. At first, apologize. I always seemed to apologize, even when I knew it wasn't my fault. Often it was just easier, simpler, to just take the blame for things instead. But I knew he didn't want to hear that. He gave a very gentle shake of his head.

"You think with your heart, not your head," his words were once more linked with a sense of exhaustion. However, he gave a small smile, "It's admirable. You are passionate about things you care about. I wish I was the same. But please, do not try and be someone you are not around me,"

There was a silence in the air. I slowly processed what he had said, the tears slowly drying in the air as they plastered to my cheeks. My breathing began to even out once more as we sat once more, facing one another, hands intertwined.

"I just thought," I paused, looking for some confirmation to continue. Permission. I don't know why, but I didn't want to lose this version of Scott. I didn't want to feel as though I was stepping on eggshells around him anymore. I truly didn't want to have to pretend anymore, "I mean... if a Lower could, if Noah could, then... in theory... but I never thought..."