I’m an idiot if I thought he was jealous. If I thought he actually wanted to kiss me. There’s a sudden itch under my skin: a familiar one. It makes me want to do something spiteful and revengeful to him, like scrape the alloys of his fancy car, or, you know, lace his stupid cigarettes with cyanide. Okay, maybe not that, but the urge to be bad tingles inside me, and I feel the same frustration I woke up with. I can’t do anything awful, because now I have no way to confess anymore.
