a sunshine boy meets a broken girl
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"ugh I hate packing "
"I'll help " I shrug .
"no , I'll do it on my own " she says checking the clothes on the hanger
"but you hate packing "
"I hate breathing too , I do that just fine "...
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"Come in."
"Sweetheart, there we go again."
She hands me another bouquet of black roses. I groan, looking at the other six on the bathroom counter. It's been a week since that night, and true to his word, he hasn't given up. Because I refuse to meet with him, he sends me a bouquet of fifty black roses daily, along with sorry cards containing quotes inside.
He's also been sending me tips about eating disorders and how to heal from them in messages. For the first two days, I left him on read, thinking he would give up soon, but boy was I wrong. I'm kind of eager to know today's quote.
Yesterday it was:
'You deserve to be happy, healthy, and at peace with yourself. You deserve the world, Storm.'
And today it's:
'I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You are more than enough, and you don't have to carry this alone. Let me be here for you, Storm, through the pain and the healing. You deserve all the love and more. I know I was wrong, but I will fix every mistake I've made these past months.'
No, no, no. I don't deserve any kind of love. I'm not made for love. I swallow hard, blinking away the blurriness.
"Why is he making this harder than it has to be?... And why, pray tell, are you smiling?" I groan, throwing my head back.
"I don't know what he did, baby, but he's pretty consistent."
"Yes, a consistency I don't like. Why can't he just go away?"
"Yes, I'm going to make breakfast, and you keep lying to yourself." I scoff.
"I'm not ly-" and she left. Great. Crossing my arms on my chest, I think about what to do. Why am I pouting? What is wrong with me? I shake my head, getting rid of all those dumb thoughts, picking up the hair brush, but then, through the window, I see him removing his shirt, might I add.
I want to look away, but it's like I'm stuck. To make matters worse, his eyes meet mine at the same time. He smirks, picking up his phone, and I receive a text.
Luca: Enjoying the view?
I look up at him, and he winks, smirking. Scoffing, I make my way to the window, stomping my feet pettily, and close the blinds on his face, but not before imitating him. My eyes fall on the mirror in front of me. I'm red like a damn tomato. What is happening?
