faded

41.0 - ashamed

"Will I ever know what you're thinking?" He asks before taking a sip of water.

I sit in the bathtub full of bubbles, not doing much. He sits on the floor with an ashtray and a copy of Baudelaire next to his water bottle. He read to me while I washed my hair and now we just sat here in silence, both of us comfortable with not saying anything at all.

I decided I had dreamt about what he said last night. I couldn't ask him, it wasn't neccesary.

"Probably if you ask," I answered his question, shaking my head as a small smile played on my lips.

He chuckled. "You will only tell me a fraction of your thoughts."

Zayn was more relaxed and it was obvious. He would go about the day casually and his demeanor wasn't as tense. It was nice. I imagined this is what he would've been like if we hadn't argued so often when we lived together.

"Okay, I'll ask now," He put the cigarette in the ashtray, the bit of smoke rising and disappearing in the air. "What are you thinking of?"

"Us," I say honestly, grabbing a bunch of bubbles and blowing them up in the air.

"What about us?"

"Just how we were in the beginning."

Zayn inches closer, his elbows placed on the tub. "I still love you the same."

"I do, too," I admit quietly.

We get quiet again. It's like we're silently taking it in or perhaps admiring the damage that has been done. We've burned each other out and this is all that's left- love lost and memories.

"Can you kiss me? Like before?"

Zayn looks unsure. For a moment he hesitates and is surely thinking about what to do next. I know it's not right for me to ask but I need to know if I'll still feel the same. Has everything changed completely? Or will I become weak with his touch still? Am I over the physical aspect of our relationship or will I sigh in contentment, thinking about the kiss for days on end?

He leans in and I close my eyes, my breath hitches. His lips hover over mine but I feel as if they've touched already. So much power. He gently presses them to mine for a second and lets them linger. I feel his fingertips on my cheek, caressing the skin carefully. The touch leaves its trace, invisible marks to prove it was once there. Our lips lace together and I want to melt into him, it seems perfect. I let a tear fall even though I'm not sure why I'm so overcome by a magnificent sadness all of a sudden.

"Don't cry, angel. I've never told you, but I hate it when I make you cry," he whispers against my lips. "I'm sorry I've done it so much."

"I'm sorry, too," I say, watching him inch away and sit back down where he was. He adjusts the ashtray ontop of the book and lights a stray cigarette he had on it.

I will think about this for days. The kiss was perfect. I hate myself for being so weak and stupid. I can't deny it. I feel lightheaded and almost bashful because of it, like a schoolgirl fawning over the most popular boy at school.

"Let's get you out of the bath, we'll finish the book later. I'll make lunch if you're hungry."