Hopefully the content makes up for the two-page length. Hope you guys like it! Also, I have a twitter account, @rowankane21. I don't tweet from it about 60 times a day, like I do from my personal one, but I try to tweet updates and such. Thanks for reading!
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Recap:
I don't know what to do. I tell my friends not to get back together with immature guys who hurt them, so what kind of hypocrite would I be if I said yes? If I took him back? What would people think? After about a minute of those kinds of thoughts, I give myself a mental smack on the head. What does it matter, what anyone else thinks? What should matter is that I'm happy. That we'd made each other happy.
Could we? Is that even possible?
"Are you crying?" he asks, his voice somehow gruff and gentle at the same time. I lift my head up and glare at him.
"I'm done crying over you."
He drops to his knees in front of me, meeting me at my eye-level. "Can I just talk, then? Will you listen?"
I frown, but I nod once. He starts talking right away, like he's afraid I'll change my mind.
"I wanted you to hate me," he says. "I figured that, if you did, it would make it easier to leave you alone. Not to come crawling back, like I am now. I thought I was being strong." He laughs, but there isn't any humour in the sound. It's like he's laughing at himself. "If I was being strong, I would've stayed."
I can't argue with that logic. "You screwed up," I tell him. He grimaces.
"I know. I'm an idiot."
Also a valid point. But I keep the comment to myself. He takes a deep breath.
"When we were together, I would've rather died than be here like this." He gestures to himself, and I assume he means the way he's kneeling. "I would've thought you'd assume I was going to propose or something. I..." he clears his throat. "I didn't respect you. As a person. I didn't give you enough credit for being as smart as you are."
I can't tell if he's purposely trying to inflate my ego or not, but it might be working.
"My issue," I start, trying to keep my voice calm and even, "Isn't that we fought like crazy. Passionate people do. My issue is that you left. That makes me feel like you didn't value me or what we had. Like I'm easy to walk away from."
"Fuck." He's shaking his head. "I wasn't thinking about that."
"You weren't thinking about me," I clarify. My mouth twists, but he nods.
"I was thinking about me. I wanted to be selfish. I wanted to screw as many women as I could. I wanted to be the most important person in my own life. And I tried it for a while."
I flinch. I can't help it. I don't want to think about him saying and doing things to other girls that he'd said and done with me. It cheapens what we shared. That's what it feels like, anyway.
"I'm sorry love. I'm so fucking sorry."
And that's the crux of it, isn't it? He left me and he's sorry. Now it's up to me to decide whether I want to accept his apology and let him back into my life, or if I'm going to be the one who walks away. I rub at my chest, feeling actual pain. If I walk away, am I any different than he is? Can I judge him for what he did if I'm considering doing the same thing?
I get up then, step around him, and walk toward the huge window on the East side of the room. If I wake up early enough, I can watch the sun rise over the city on a clear day. Now I can see lights on in some buildings, and total blackness in others. I love this window. It lets me take a step back from life, and remind myself that I'm just one small person in a world of billions. All of us matter. The choices we make matter. They affect other people.
"Do you love me?" My voice is soft, and I keep my eyes on the city. I hear him stand and walk up behind me. He doesn't touch me, but I know he's there. It's like I can feel the hum of his energy reaching out, trying to mix with mine. It makes me shiver.
"I love you so much it hurts." His voice is rough.
My heart's racing, but I keep my face neutral. It's not for him--I don't even know if he sees it. It's for me. I want to remain in control.
He moves closer, still not touching me. "Do you love me?" he murmurs in my ear. My heart feels like it's trying to escape my ribcage. Can he hear it?
"So much it hurts," I whisper back. He puts his hands on my hips and spins me around. The next second, his lips are crashing down on mine, and he pulls me into him. His mouth works furiously, his fingers tangle in my hair, and I feel something break down within me. I match him, digging my nails into his chest, rivaling the pace of his lips with mine. Our hearts race against each other, pounding in alternate rhythms. He pulls my hair and I gasp into the kiss. He growls, backing me up against the window. He lifts me up and I wrap my legs around him.
His lips leave my mouth and move across my jaw, and down to my neck. He bites and kisses the same spots, and it feels like he's setting my body on fire.
"Oh." The sound escapes me, and he grips me even more tightly. His hips start moving, pulling us together.
"I missed the way you taste," he says in between nips. I shiver. The window's cold against my back, but he's all heat. I throw my head back, and he moves down, still blazing a trail of pain and pleasure with his mouth.
I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull. He groans against my chest.
"Stop." His voice is ragged. I can feel his breath, hot against my skin. "I'm barely in control. I'll lose it if you don't."
I don't care. I start moving my hips, the opposite way of his. He inhales sharply at the friction. I press my face into the spot between his neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent that is so, uniquely him. He buries his face in my hair, breathing hard.
I push his shirt collar down and press a kiss to his chest, taking one of my hands away from his hair to do it. I pull the shirt lower, and my mouth follows.
"What're you doing."
"I missed the way you taste," I throw back at him. He shudders.
"Fuck."

ESTÁS LEYENDO
Out of Style [inspired by "Style" from 1989]
FanfictionInspired by the song "Style", off of Taylor Swift's newest album, 1989. Fanfiction.