This is so childish, isn’t it? Holding hands. This is playground bullshit. It shouldn’t be—it shouldn’t be— But it’s everything. His touch is on my hand but it’s all over my body, and those bullets whizzing through me, the aching thuds of my pulse, all of it swells together in a detonation that is physically agonizing to not react to. My eyes split open. And I twist to him; increment by increment, I’ll find an excuse in his face. My mind will start working again and I’ll see the reason I did this and it’ll be something—something—that makes sense—
