17 Last Times

⤹20❁ Fountain pen

I AM SO EXCITED FOR THIS ONE, SO I WON'T EVEN SAY ANYTHING ELSE! ENJOY!

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𝓓𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓪

Nathan nods his head a few times, thanking for the applause that he's being given. He then walks off the stage and starts pacing towards our table.

I study intently his shaky legs and hands, the way his face turns all shades of serious and impassive.

He finally takes a seat. There is a brief moment of silence.

"Davina, please say something. I'm literally shitting myself right now."

I gaze at him, absorbing each detail of his handsome visage. His eyes, filled with horror of anticipation, connect to mine. I don't need to use any words. There are better ways of showing him how I feel about his poem.

I slowly lean in, our eye contact remains unbreakable. I gently place my lips on his.

He lets out a quiet, shaky breath, followed by a lazy smile, which stretches his mouth, still united with my own.

I slightly pull away.

He peers at me, eyes aglow with strong emotion. "Can you do it again?

A sunny smile lifts the corners of my mouth. I let his fingers splay across my cheeks. We kiss once more.

One week later

𝓐𝓷𝓪𝔂𝓪

I stare out the window. It's been so long and I've never wondered why my counselor records each of our conversations. Michael had told me that it's for him, so he can thoroughly analyze my words at home in order to be able to provide me even better help. Better guidance.

But does he? Does he really spend his evenings listening to our dialogues over and over again? Maybe he likes to hear my voice? Maybe he plays my confessions on repeat " I am so lucky to have you, Michael.", "You're the only person who seems to get me." Are these the extracts he listens to whilst he sits on his sofa, naked, moving his hand up and down his dick, thinking about me? Listening to my voice as I tell him he's the best?

No.

No, he does not.

I'm in a wheelchair. In his eyes I am broken not only physically but also in my head. He sees me as nothing more than a miserable, poor bird who got hit by a car and lost a friend. I scoff under my breath at the latter.

He can't tell me much. He knows that whatever he says won't fix me. Then why record me? Why want to retain hours of my ranting on his computer? He doesn't even seem to be interested when I speak about my accident. He just constantly asks about Cassie's death and how it made me feel. Apparently, that's the biggest of his concerns regarding my well-being.

I look at him when he returns from the bathroom.

"Ready to continue?" he chirps, and it's the first time his voice really annoys me.

"Sure," I say, blunt. All the cogitation put me in a really bad mood.

"Did something happen? You seem quite off."