And this, honestly, this? This is not getting her anywhere. It’s not getting her anywhere or getting her anything, except a lot of problems, really. This whole brooding-on-the-bathroom-floor thing, it does not fly.
But Christ, she can’t help it, she can’t. It’s just that he’s—he’s this special person who she doesn’t really deserve (and yeah, okay, she knows she doesn’t deserve him. Like at all. She stomped all over his heart, only to apologize, and then do it again—that is not conducive to deserving someone), and sometimes he leaves her little notes and once he brought her flowers and it’s just—it’s not enough. It should be, but it’s not.
Because here’s the thing:
She has these great friends, and they’re the people that she loves the best. She trusts them more than anything. But they—um, they don’t like him. Which she can’t really blame them for, she guesses, because she’s only told them the bad but not the good, like how sometimes he reminds her of autumn; wrapped up tight in a blanket in from of the fireplace and peeling chestnuts under lamplight. And how it’s okay, this thing they do, how it’s all okay, because even though they like fucking each other up, they like fucking everyone else up more.
It’s pretty twisted.
But it’s sort of… sort of good. Sort of quiet.
He brings her a coffee from a shitty coffee place she hates (yeah, she hates it—eat it, bitch). She only sips it, makes a face, and then shoves it at him.
“You know I hate that shit,” she says. “Why even bring it?”
He smirks. “Because you always make that face.”
“I hate you,” she says cheerfully.
And he just sits there, across the table, like this is totally normal. And maybe it is.
She sighs, and shakes her head. “I’m gonna make some tea.”
She doesn’t offer any and he doesn’t ask and when she turns away she tries to breathe and thinks that this? This is going to be the fucking death of me. I know you don’t mean to be, but it is, because you’re kind of my endgame, I think, even if you don’t know it.
She doesn’t say any of that out loud, though.