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Just ask him to hang out. But in a very non-friends way. Like, actually use the word ‘date’ so he knows it’s not a friendly catch-up.” I cringe at the thought. “Isn’t that too forward? It feels … awkward.” “Bub, in the grown-up world, people like forward.” “What ‘grown-up world’? Char, you’ve been at uni for approximately twelve minutes. You’re not a grown-up yet.” “All I’m saying is that people like to know where they stand.”
Point being, it’s been one of the longest weeks of my life. Now that I’ve spent quality time with Eli in the real world, I find myself constantly craving the sound of his voice, the melody of his laugh. I need to be in the same room as him. Not even doing anything, just … inhabiting the same space. I can’t really explain it. Maybe that’s what love feels like? (Or is that obsession? Eeek.)
Unapproachable? Yes. Untouchable? Yes. Barely even real? Most definitely. But a dick? Not at all.
Of course I’m attracted to Alex, but it’s no different to the way I feel about the ripped (and headless) models on the underwear packets at Target: They’re obviously wonderful to look at, but the attraction is purely physical. Aesthetic. Like … appreciating a work of art. A work of art who will never appreciate you back. My attraction to Eli is real. It’s visceral. Intellectual. Emotional. It makes my heart flutter and the blood drain from my brain and travel to … other parts. That’s the kind of attraction I’m here for.
Or maybe the air is full of testosterone and I’m a seventeen-year-old gay virgin and even a slight breeze can turn me on.
Alex is so casual about his body that his nudity feels weirdly non-sexual.
Every single text is someone else asking if I’m okay. No one blames me for ruining anything. No one says I’m a horrible person. They’re all just checking in. As if— I take in a breath and look up to the cloudy, grey sky. A wave of emotion crashes down on me. As if they’re my friends.
