Because I don’t want to see anyone standing there.
The energy between Dare and I is thick. It snaps with tension, with unspoken words. I close my eyes and feel it, gliding over my skin like his pencils on the page.
I listen to the charcoal skimming the paper,
I hear Dare’s shallow breaths as he concentrates.
Glancing at him, I watch as he shoves his hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand,
Rushing to get back to my picture.
He draws my leg,
He draws my eye,
He draws my lips.
And when he draws my lips, I get up from my seat, and I kneel in front of him.
I touch his with shaking fingers.
He closes his eyes, but then captures my hand with his own.
“Not ‘til you’re ready, Calla,” he says, his words firm. “I can’t… just not until you’re ready.”
I have to accept that because it’s fair.
I can’t waffle back and forth, I can’t play games, even if it’s with myself.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Cal,” he tells me. “Just be ready soon. Please.”
I have to smile at that, and I examine his picture.
I look sad, haunted, almost like a ghost as I perch in the window staring at the sky.
“Do I really look like that?” I ask dubiously and a bit disappointed.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells me and he believes it.
I rest my cheek against his knee.
“Is it awful being back here? I know you don’t enjoy it.”
But he came here for me. That says something.
It might say everything.
“It’s not terrible,” he answers. “You’re here.”
I am.
I’m here.
“What happened to you here,” I ask him, bringing up a tender subject. He flinches, but looks away.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”