Erase Herゾごホ

手が出血するまで - til my hands bleed

"Do you have something against pancakes?"

"No, I have something against the person who made the pancakes."

"They're blueberry."

"I hate blueberry."

"No you don't."

"I don't."

Shouta glared at me from the other end of his dining room table, frustrating showing on his face as he sighed, placing his eating utensils down with a clank. Now, pancakes aren't my favorite kind of food, annnnnd eating Shouta's cooking definitely intrigued me, but the weight I felt on my chest just from being in the same room with him was destroying me. I placed my hand on the chair next to me, trying to bear the pain as I spoke maturely.

"Why did you even come after me last night, Shouta?" I asked, but my strength betrayed me. It came out as almost a whisper as my eyes began to brim tears. His own expression softened as I could no longer hide my anger or pain any longer.

My walls, my defenses, they were crumbling as I started to think what's the point of even putting on an act for him? He obviously thinks of me as nothing more than a 'fuck and dump', so what if we add 'crazy/sad bitch fuck and dump'?

He rose from his chair, rubbing his tired face as he sluggishly made his way to me. His hand came up, ruffling through my (h/c) hair as he smirked softly.

"Because I missed you." He said simply. My nose scrunched up at his words, not believing them. I shook my head, stepping backwards and stumbling slightly. He frowned, acknowledging my reaction as he retracted his touch. "(Y/n)." I rose a hand, my lip quivering as I tried to control my emotions.

"Listen to me Shouta," I began, my fingers slightly shaking in the air. "I can not be broken again, if I am..." I bit my lip, thinking of the wreckage that was my life. It's been years. Eleven years since my mother died. Eleven years since I've let anyone else in, anyone see the real me. There a parts of me that I swore I would take to the grave, specks of darkness that should never been shown to another person. And to prevent that, I've isolated myself. Yeah, I had friends. Friends who truly loved me and were too good for the world as it is, but they don't ask too many questions about my life and my feelings, and I don't offer. It's better that way. It's colder and lonely, but it's better. I've convinced myself of that. "I will not be able to repair myself." My eyes narrowed as I thought carefully about each and every outcome. He could call my crazy, tell me to leave because I'm certainly not worth any kind of trouble or hassle. He could say all the right things and make my insides explode with warmth and sunlight, and then still break me. The possibilities were endless, but the endings seemed all the same. Shouta would destroy me and getting involved with him further was not a good idea. But without him, life was a drag. A nuisance to even wake up in the morning. I could feel myself growing numb to life, liveliness, and the will to live itself. Shouta was the last breath I had, and I wanted to cling to him. For survival, I needed to. He was clearly a double edged sword, and the pleading I'm doing right now will obviously render useless, but something inside me broke free. Something beyond my mask. Shouta tilted his head to the side, slowly extending his hand once more.

"I will always pick up your pieces, (y/n)." He said almost with no hesitation. His touch finally reaching me, palm pressed against my cheek. "You will never need to repair yourself, ever again." My heart pounded, my breath catching in my throat as I squinted my eyes, pushing the waterworks out. I've waited so long...so long, for anyone to say that to me. My legs felt weak and I pressed against the edge of the dining room table to keep myself from falling. My hand covered my mouth, while the other wrapped around the collar of Shouta's shirt that I was wearing. How alone have I really been for something as simple as that to hurt this bad? Shouta didn't turn away at my tears, he didn't look at me differently. He inhaled deeply, his hand extended, wrapping around the back of my head and pulling me into his chest. His pressed his lips against the top of my head, letting his fingers run through the knotted locks of my (h/c) hair. I ground my teeth, fighting against my own thoughts. It's time, (y/n). It's time to release the hold on my heart. It's time to give in. I let go of the shirt I had on, released my mouth and shakily wrapped my arms around his torso. Was he always this skinny? Had I never noticed this before? Or did he get skinnier in our time apart? Maybe he really won't break all that I am. My hands circled underneath his arms, gripping his shoulders as I cried a little bit too hard for an eighteen year old girl who seems happy and lost in liveliness half the time.

Who knows. Maybe I can just eat the damn blueberry pancakes and call it a day.

"I will pick up the pieces of you until my hands bleed and I can no longer feel my fingertips."