Hostage to you | B.E

25 Run

The sheets are soft. Her breathing is slow and even behind me. I feel the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her arm is still draped across my waist like she doesn't want to let go even in her sleep.

It should feel safe.

I should feel safe.

But I don't.

The room is dark, but my mind won't quiet down. Every part of me is too aware. The warmth of her skin. The weight of her arm. The soft scent of her shampoo clinging to the pillow. It's overwhelming, the way it feels so good and so terrifying at the same time.

I try to breathe through it. I try to tell myself it's okay. That this isn't the part where she disappears again. That this time is different.

But the longer I lie there, the tighter the knot in my chest grows.

Because people don't stay. They don't stick around. They don't hold you like this and mean it. They hold you until they're done. Until it's inconvenient. Until someone tells them to stop.

And Billie already did it once.

She left me without a word, without a fight. She chose someone else's rules over mine. She made me feel like I meant nothing, and I let her. I forgave her with a kiss and a whispered name, but my body hasn't caught up to the forgiveness yet. My hands still shake from the memory of her silence. My heart still braces for the next time.

I glance over my shoulder. Her eyes are closed. Her face is soft, peaceful. She looks younger in sleep, less guarded.

And it makes it worse.

Because I want her so badly, I'm terrified of it.

I slide out from under her arm slowly. Her fingers twitch, but she doesn't wake. I move carefully, grabbing my hoodie from the floor and shoving my feet into my sneakers without tying them. The room is quiet except for the rustle of fabric and the faint sound of her breathing.

I tell myself I'm just going for air.

That I'll come back.

But I don't believe it.

The door clicks shut behind me. I walk out into the cold.

The night air hits like a slap. It's past three, the streets empty, the sky still ink-dark. I walk without thinking, hoodie zipped all the way up, hands in my pockets, heart pounding like I just ran five miles.

I don't even realize where I'm going until I'm there. A small bench a few blocks away, across from the shuttered bakery we passed once on a walk. I sit down and rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the sidewalk. My breath clouds in front of me, but I don't feel the cold. Not really.

I left because I was scared. Because it's easier to leave than to be left.

Because I don't trust love that feels this fragile.

And maybe I never have.

My dad used to come home late every night, smelling like paper and tiredness. We'd sit at the table together and eat dinner in silence. I'd ask about his day. He'd grunt something back. I learned not to expect more. I learned that distance was normal, that affection came in forgotten birthdays and distracted nods. My mom wasn't better. She tried sometimes, but even when she looked at me, it felt like she was staring through me. Like I was there, but not important enough to fully see.

I grew up thinking love was always at arm's length. That it was polite smiles and quiet rooms and people who cared, just not quite enough to stay.

And now Billie's in my bed, breathing against the pillow we shared, and I left because I believed she'd leave first.