I watch his hair flying in the wind and I hate that the only urge I have is to touch it, run my fingers through it. But I can’t. Wanting him is a painful struggle. Wanting him is ripping a hole in the very marrow of my existence and making me question everything. I can’t afford to question everything. I need my system and routines, and he simply does not belong there. He’s an error in the matrix. A plot hole in a story.
