𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟒𝟏

❛ 𝐡𝐢𝐦 ❜

"𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐖𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐊?"

Lie. That's a lie, she doesn't mean a word. I know she doesn't.
She's just...upset, right?

My eyes narrow down from her eyes to the ground, my palms staring up at me, as i fist them, the skin turning white in the process.

With my chest heaving up frantically, breaths uneven, fear and anxiety, what ifs and maybes glooming over my subconsciousness—I have never felt this humane before, since...

"I hate you!" she shouts, as to affirm those words as her own, confirming them to herself, as if she really means any of it.

She doesn't right?

She can't, but she can.

I know, yet I don't.

"Liar." I am staring into her eyes again-bloodshot, tear streaked.

I watch her jerk at that, alarmed. She winces back, when I try to touch her arms. A tightness spreads across my chest and I don't appreciate any of it.

She's not even looking at me, and I am fighting every muscle of my body, to hold her tight and have her hear me out.

I muster up a deep inhale of oxygen before I speak, "You're lying, you don't mean them."

"You don't hate me."

"I do." She wrongs me, a bit too fast for my liking.

"I hate you so much that I wish...I would never see you again, never hear a word from your lying mouth— again—never be deceived by you again, never be fooled by your honeyed words...ever...ever again." She's clutching my vest tightly as she speaks, her words loud and purposeful, as if to ingrain them on mind.

She let's go, leaving crumpled fabric in it's wake. As I watch her run a hand through her jaw, before she palms her mouth, suppressing another sob.

I hate this. Her tears. Her sobs. Her cries as she shouts at me. Her disapproving gaze-that tells me she might hate me for real.

I hate it, and fear creeps through me.

I can bear her bitter words, her screams, the way she shouts, the way she pushes me away everytime I try to touch her, the grimace that spreads across her face whenever her eyes meet mine—anything but her hatred.

Her raw hatred, is eating me alive, and although, I know I'm not supposed to be feeling anything at all at that, I do. Unconditionally so, I-I don't even know when it started the way it did.

I think, the–the, awareness gnawed at me, when one day I came across this one letter, sent to Y/N, by a man.

I read it.

He was her beloved-said the letter. The anticipation was clear on his end, but it never reached her. I never let it.

At first it was merely because I was bemused. I didn't want any unasked distractions for her, but then I saw it.