“Braxton?” “Yes, Houston?” “When I look at you, I see something in my way. Nothing more, nothing less.” Pretending that didn’t hurt was impossible, so I let him see my pain. “I’m not your enemy, Houston. I don’t want to hurt you.” When my fingers stretched to reach out to him, I curled them, keeping my hands to myself. “Any of you.” He stared into my eyes, and I watched the internal struggle whether to believe me in his. “Maybe not now,” he partially conceded, “but you will. It’s what we do to anyone who gets too close. We make them hate us, and then we hurt them before they can hurt us.”
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