𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝

21

valentina

I'm currently having a self-care night.

Sitting in a bubble bath with Mac Miller playing off my phone, a glass of wine in my hand and a face mask on my face.

I've never felt so relaxed.

The sweet smell of lavender and coconut fills my senses and I sip my wine, humming along to the tune.

Living with people can be hard work, not Matteo obviously, he's okay but it's nice to have moments alone.

Yeah keep telling yourself that.

No amount of self-care can distract me from the fact that I miss Matteo. It makes me slightly uneasy, knowing how attached I've become to him in such a short period of time. Missing someone is a weird feeling and it consumes you.

I miss his crooked nose. And his green eyes. The way his hands feel when the touch my skin. His soft brown hair. His amazing cooking skills. His accent. God his accent. The tattoos on his tan skin. His muscles and the way that they flex when he moves. His very distracting back.

Matteo's soft lips and his constant need to be touchy.

He consumes my every thought.

Holy shit.

That's never happened before. I've never cared or thought about another person so much in my life.

Does he think about me?

Does this mean I like him?

No.

I don't like him, I'm just very attracted to him and the tension between us doesn't go away no matter how much I ignore it.

And neither do my feelings.

Fuck.

I force myself to think about how much of an asshole he was before but he's changed to much since then I can hardly remember and to be fair, it was kind of deserved.

I have an obsession with reading books. Romance book specifically.

I'm not sure wether it's the men written by women who set unrealistic standards, the living vicariously through other people or the escapism that books offer, that appeals to me the most.

I guess it's a combination.

But it's these books that give me a bad case of main character syndrome, that causes me to romanticise everything in my life. And sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm not the main character in a book and that he's not looking at me like that because he likes me, he's just looking at me because he has to.

It's crazy how ink on paper can make you feel so much more than the real world offers.

I wish men were as good as they are in books.

Other than Ryle Kincaid that is.

He can go die in a hole for all I care.

The timer on my phone ends, reminding me to take off my hydrating face mask and breaking me out of my thoughts. I get out of the bath, rubbing off all of the bubbles with a towel before finishing off my wine and slipping on a black satin camisole and shorts set. I twist my hair up into a bun and apply moisturiser all over my body, sliding on some socks so that my feet don't get cold as I make my way downstairs to get some water.

Since I usually forget to drink, when I can I make the conscious effort to go downstairs and get some water.

I feel so much more refreshed and relaxed tonight and I love it.