blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale

{19} I don't wanna be your friend I wanna kiss your lips

Aurora's POV:

When I wake up, everything feels disorienting. The sunlight sneaks through the blinds, leaving golden stripes across my arms. The room is still, almost too quiet, and for a second, I wonder if last night was just another dream I'm going to wake up from, alone in my room, staring at the ceiling.

But then I hear a rustling noise, and I turn to see Taylor sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to me. Her hair falls in loose waves, and she's still wearing the tank top she threw on last night. She doesn't seem to notice that I'm awake; she's lost in her own thoughts, one hand pressed against her forehead like she's trying to push the thoughts away.

I don't know what to say, and the weight of everything that happened between us hangs heavily in the room. Part of me wants to reach out, to ask her what she's thinking, but I can't seem to find the words.

"Hey," I say softly, testing the distance between us. My voice comes out hesitant, like I'm afraid I'll break something if I speak too loudly.

She turns at the sound of my voice, and I see a flicker of something cross her face—relief, maybe, or fear. I'm not sure which. Her eyes are red-rimmed like she didn't sleep well, and there's a tiredness in her gaze that makes my stomach clench.

"Hey," she echoes, her voice quieter than mine. It's a cautious greeting, and I don't like how careful she's being with her words, like she's trying to hold back a storm inside her.

We sit there in silence, neither of us knowing what to say. My heart is beating fast, and I hate the way the uncertainty presses down on my chest. Last night was... intense, overwhelming in a way that still doesn't feel real. But here, in the light of day, it feels fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it completely.

"You're really quiet," I say, trying to break through whatever wall she's building between us. It's not like her to be this closed off. I need her to talk to me, to explain what's going on in her head.

"I'm just—" she starts, then stops, like she's not sure what comes next. Her fingers press into the mattress, and I can see how tightly she's gripping it. "I'm trying to process this."

I sit up, pulling the sheets closer around me, still naked, waiting for her to keep talking. But she doesn't, and the silence stretches out, heavy and uncomfortable. I can feel the knot in my chest tightening, and I know I can't let this moment pass without saying something.

"Are you regretting it?" I ask, my voice breaking the quiet. I can hear the vulnerability in my own words, and it scares me to put myself out there like that. But I need to know.

She looks at me then, really looks at me, and there's something so conflicted in her eyes that it makes my heart ache. "No," she says, almost too quickly, like she's afraid I'll misunderstand. "It's not that."

"Then what?" I press, not letting her off the hook that easily.

She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath, and when she opens them, there's something raw in her gaze. "I'm scared," she admits, and her voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't know what this means—what we mean."

I feel a pang of sympathy, but there's also frustration boiling under my skin. "What it means," I say slowly, trying to keep my voice steady, "is that you can't keep pretending you don't care."

She flinches at my words, like they hit too close to home, and for a moment, I think she's going to pull away completely. But then something shifts in her expression, and the wall between us starts to crumble, just a little.

"I tried not to care," she says, almost to herself, her voice shaky. "But it's like... every time I see you, I can't—" She cuts herself off, shaking her head like she's trying to clear it. "It's not supposed to be like this."