She sat there in the cold chair, holding his hand, stroking the tender grazes on his knuckles. She knows better than to ask where they come from. Every time she goes over a particularly deep scrape, he flinches, so she tries to pull away. Each time she tries, he merely presses his palm into hers. He was like a cat of sorts.
"Tell me what's wrong," she asked quietly, squeezing his hand faintly.
He looked up at her with dull eyes. "What do you mean?"
She sighed. "I want to know why you're doing this to yourself...I want to know what's wrong, and how I can help. I'd do anything," she pleaded, handing her heart over on a silver platter.
He rubbed his forehead, a glint of misfortune hinting in the blue orbs that stared back into her brown. "In short? I hate myself."
"But I love you," she said, hope shining in her eyes as much as hate was in his own.
It was the first time either of them had said it.
"Why?" he asked, disgust plain in his voice.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm ugly, abrasive, awkward, and kind of rude. I'm sort of mean to you and I'm super clingy, I have inferiority issues and I'm just pathetic, and honestly....always complaining."
"I still love you." she responded, clutching his hand, as if to transfer the happiness she feels into him.
He laughs quietly, and it's disturbing. "You can hate yourself all you want...but I love you for you," she insisted, a tear shining in her eyes.
He looked up at her. "Isn't that enough?" she asked quietly.
He sighed and let go of her hand. "No...it's not."
