“Why is it so hard for you to admit to yourself that you want this?” I almost hear my patience snap, my final shred of self-control landing on the rug between our feet. “Fine, I want this. I want you. I can’t escape you, Alex. You’re like the sun. I turn away, I look down, but I can still see you reflected in everything at my feet. If I draw the curtains, you slip through the cracks. I can’t fall for the moon instead because it’s you that illuminates it. None of that changes the fact that we just won’t work. You’re not the problem here. It’s me, and things out of my control.”
