But in the rainy afternoon, he is.
This time, however, his knocks are softer and in control.
I lean against the door, waiting for him to speak. I hear him breathing; I can almost picture him leaning his head on the door. I stay still. I can't seem to move. I hate that he has this over me.
I hate that I open the door.
He is a mess. He's soaked through as if he's been walking through the rain since he left. His blue eyes are clouded with regret, misery, and self-hatred, mirroring a war veteran's. He wears the same wrinkled clothes from last night, emitting a foul smell. The color of his skin compares with the moon with faint bruises on his cheekbone. His blond hair sticks to his forehead, delivering more raindrops onto his face.
Blue steps back with widened eyes, shallowing in the fact I haven't killed him yet. I stare at him, but I don't know what I'm waiting for. I don't know if I want him to eat grovel or jump off a building or slam his head against the wall. But I do not want him to crumble like a hopeless life form recognizing his failure as a human.
I sit on the floor and cross my legs. My legs are too tired and feel too weak. My energy seeps out at the sight of his blue irises.
Blue follows suit. But avoids my eyes.
I should hate him. I should want to call the police or kick him out myself. But I don't want to.
I glare at him. Because that's the only thing I can think myself to do. I clench my fists, counting the seconds my palms can endure my fingernails.
I hate so much in this world. But finding something that I don't hate makes me angry. I was lied too and manipulated. I believed the world was nothing but cuts and bruises. Nothing but people wanting to killing others or themselves.
I hate Blue because he's showing me that the world isn't what I thought.
I stand up and slam the door closed, leaving Blue on the floor by his lonesome in the hall. Leaving him without a word.
I don't hate Blue.
