ignore how winded I am by how indifferent he is towards me, remind myself that I’ll always have Romeo and maybe that’s better anyway—safer, fenced in, predictable. I don’t like feeling like this about someone, this unbridled, free-falling, slippery, fragile thing that it is to love him because he—Christian, who is standing right in front of me—is never going to want me how I want him. Even if sometimes it feels like he might for a second, it’s just a trick. It’s the oxytocin talking and nothing I think I see on his face is real, because I’m looking at him through the eyes of someone who loves
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