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“Still here, guys.” “Then leave,” Christian tells him without looking at him.4 “Been your best friend for twenty fucking years and that’s how you’re gonna talk to me?” Henry gives him a look. “How pussy-whipped are you?” “Right now? Very.” Christian nods once, still not looking over at him5 and I feel like my head’s in the clouds because they’re talking about me and I love him6 when he goes like this, so serious and so solemn, precision-focused on the task at hand, which happens to be me.
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 him and those eyes can’t be trusted.
The only person I never tell them details about is Parks.” “Why?” I frown. “Because she’s mine.”
I can’t even look at him because I’m a flower and he’s the whole entire sun and he’ll wilt me away,
I’ve never felt like this and it’s now, right now, this exact second that I realise I am in love with Daisy Haites. And then it is immediately after, in that exact second, that I realise I’ve lost her.
Romeo meant the world to me, but my brother meant the universe.
“Christian—he was never it, I know that. He didn’t want me back, so I know he wasn’t it. But I guess I thought he was. It felt like he was. And I didn’t know, not really, not properly, ’til we were done, that I loved him how I loved him. I mean—” I shake my head. “I knew I loved him but—um—” I shake my head again. “I didn’t know I loved him in the sort of way where when you lose them you lose you too.”
I am fucked up. I love him in a way that’s unravelled me, it’s undone me at the seams of myself, and everything that’s pouring out of me is ugly and awful, maybe because I let out all my good for him?
