Philophobia (Anger is Bliss)

chapter 7

Did you know that, the closer you get to the inside of a black hole, the more the world, the entire universe, shrinks into a bubble?

And instead of growing tinier and disappearing as if I were in a tunnel of which the only way out was the way I got in, my bubble just popped to my face and left stars in my eyes.

And I have no idea how to handle it.

He's out of this world.

What is going on with me? I can't take my eyes off him. He is so captivating all of a sudden?

I mentally scoff. Sudden? Why are my thoughts acting like that when we both know, my brain and I, that I've been staring all fucking day at this somehow awfully attractive person. It is not sudden, it's been that way since the moment I saw him.

I feel his fingers playing with mine. I can't handle this much. The tension, the feeling that is actually there, the affection I somehow feel from him, the way he always bends toward me as if he were being pulled, the way he looks at me yet avoids my eyes, the way he is bold yet nervous as if I actually made him nervous. Everything. It's never been that way. Never. I can't be attracted to him. It's too much. I harshly rip my hand from his without looking away from his face.

I hate my hands. I have sausagy and damaged fingers because I have the habit of picking on my skin. I hate to show my hands and I hate when someone can touch—or see—them.

He opens his eyes and looks at me. Is he mad?

"Are you okay?" he asks, looking into my eyes deeply. Why does he care?

"Mmh" I hum back, looking away. Coward.

He holds my chin to make me face him. Fuck. My skin burns. "Doesn't look like it," he says, analyzing my features.

"Doesn't matter" I say, breaking his hold on my face, "don't touch my hands."

I hide them in my sleeves as I did previously. "Matters to me," he says grabbing my hand again, completely ignoring what I said.

"Are you deaf?" I ask.

"Whatever. I like your hands. They're soft" he mumbles. I might be completely misreading this situation, but as of right now, he is holding my hand. This stranger I'm so convinced to have a connection with, I'm holding his hand. He's holding mine. Well, either way, it's just...weird. It's weird how normal this feels. I would never allow this if it was anyone else.

Who is this guy?

I try my best to forget his compliment and focus on the road. I finally connect to reality enough to realize we've passed my stop.

"Shit."

"It's okay, I can take you home," he says, pressing the stop button.

"I'm good," I say looking back at him.

He looks into my eyes but doesn't answer. We make eye contact for a few seconds only, but it feels like the world has stopped. And those beautiful eyes. He's holding my hand. I'm losing it.

What is he doing to me?

I feel the anger growing again. What's up with that anyway?? He is sweet, I have no reason to be this mad over nothing. But he's so caring and delicate. I'm not made of glass, nor do I need affection. He can keep it to himself. I don't need charity.

He gets up and offers me his hand as help to get up as well. I ignore it and stand next to him. I also try to ignore the way his hand is so close to touching mine, and how I seem to miss his touch. I also try to ignore the way I'm losing focus on everything but him, and how I can sort of feel his breath against my hair. It's so soft, I can barely feel it but I do.