like the bullet you never saw coming; beth

[adna]

one touch will make you so nervous you might stop breathing
one touch will make you so reckless you might start feeling
one touch will finally show to me what you can't hide

Maybe the problem is that she doesn’t understand him.

And how could she?

He keeps everything locked away beneath feet of granite and concrete and gives nothing but the smallest of clues to his thoughts. She studies him, so eager for even the smallest piece, the smallest glimmer of his innermost feelings, but she so often comes away empty-handed. She walks away just hungry and alone.

The second that he sighs, she realizes her mistake again.

She realizes that she has continued to trod on the same ground—having the same outbursts and somehow expecting for him to react in a different way. But even knowing this, even knowing that she is not going to win and the reaction she so desperately is hoping for won’t come, she can’t stop herself.

“You never do, do you? You don’t ask anything of anyone,” she spits, feeling the way that the cruelty wraps itself around her throat, letting it linger on her tongue. “Least of all me.” This stings her more than it would him—this reminder that he would never turn to her, never reach out, never give an inch.

She swallows it down easily with the rest of her pain.

“Maybe I don’t think anything of you,” she lies and wishes it wasn’t so obvious, wishes that the tears on her cheeks would go away and she could be cold—as cold as him. “Maybe I don’t think a thing.”

ADNA