HTYLBF » jaeseong

II

II. Every touch is bittersweet

I've realized that there's different kinds of touches. There are two obvious types: loving and angry. But those categories branch out into subcategories, and the one I always find myself in is something I like to call "love-hurt". See, it's kind of like heartbreak, in that it's just the journey to it. Love-hurt applies to a person who knows that they only have so much time until their flimsy assurances blow away into the wind and they're left with nothing more than memories that are happiness lined with barbed wire.

    And you know you're love-hurt when every time you touch the person who's stolen your heart, it aches a little more.

    I'm an idiot, because I can't stop touching Inseong.

    He drives us home (or at least, to his house) after school, and we lay in his basement on our stomachs, doing our math homework. My left leg is thrown over his right, and I feel it like a burn on my heart; the longer we touch, the more scar tissue forms.

But that's okay, because right now, it feels good. And I can only focus on the present; the good - because Inseong is right next to me and I can pretend we're okay.

I can pretend that we're not at a dangerous imbalance.

"Hey," Inseong says, throwing down his pencil. "I don't want to do homework anymore."

"Same," I say, rolling onto my back and gazing up into his face. He practically shines, and I feel as though I should shield my eyes. Everything about him is so soft and perfect that it hurts. We've been friends for something like ten years, and I've been in love with him for about seven.

You'd think I'd be used to it. Used to the burn in my lungs when I forget to breathe, to the tingle in my fingertips when our hands accidentally brush. Used to the twinge of my heartstrings when I realize that every touch (on his part) is just that - accidental.

It's so exhausting, to love him.

"Let's watch a movie," he says, face lighting up. Mine does too, almost childishly. It's so simple to find happiness when I'm with him  It's just hard to hold onto it.

We settle in on the couch together, settling on a movie that we've seen a million times already. Hesitantly, I wrap an arm around his shoulder, mouth open as I survey his reaction carefully. He doesn't protest, laying his head on my shoulder.

I feel a frown threatening my lips, and I fight to hold it back. I wish things were simple.

His skin is so smooth, and I want to press a kiss to his cheekbone.

I wish we were together.

He nestles into me a little more, and all I want is to take his hand and trace little patterns on his palms with my thumb.

I wish I wasn't in love with him.

It's slowly killing me, and every touch compounds upon the sickness in my chest. Because with every touch, I make believe. I make believe that we're a couple, and I exhaust myself looking for a semblance of what I feel in him. And it stings because I never do, but I continue to live on that false hope.

False hope is worse than no hope at all.