0 || Prologue

21 1 0

by insanelyuncreative

by insanelyuncreative

《 LYRIC 》

I am not that girl.

"You're thinking again," his arms tighten around me. Whether it's to keep me from falling to the ground or to have me close to him, I'm not sure, but all I'm sure of is that this lack of distance between us isn't good for me - for anybody.

I'm not that girl.

In my weak attempt to pull away from him, from what he stands for, my head sways back to get a proper view of his face, to meet his gaze, to savour the moment because it won't be happening again... or anytime soon if I can help it.

I've lost all reason, all strength, to stand by my promise the minute our eyes align with each other, his instantly holding mine captive as his arms do every time he has the chance. And unfortunately for me, tonight isn't like every other time where I'd been strong enough to pull away from him and had been sober enough to remember where my priorities lie, where my loyalty lies.

Tonight just had to be the night where I'm at my weakest, cornered and trapped between a rock, a hard place and two bottles of the strongest vodka I could find. It had to be the night where all my reasons for steering clear of him don't seem logical anymore, the night where all my priorities no longer make sense, the same night where my loyalty decided it was better off by my side than anywhere else.

Tonight, out of all nights, is the night I needed him to continue resisting me, but instead he's resisting my attempts to push him away.

"I can stand." My voice, although hoarse from my body's brutal encounter with alcohol, remains steady and loyal to me - not even allowing a single drop of how weak and powerless I felt against him, against his gaze, slip through with my words. "You can let go now."

He doesn't listen, not that he ever does when it comes to me. "It's never a good thing when you think,"his arms around my waist tighten even further, pressing me completely against him, and even though my legs had found their footing since my failed attempt to press our floor number -I didn't want him to let go. "You have a bad habit of making me the enemy after every thinking session you have, especially if it's just the both of us."

I'm not that girl.

With good reason, I wanted to say. But I didn't, I couldn't. Saying it means accepting, and accepting means having a bucket full of cold and hard reality spill over my head and I didn't want that. Not tonight, not when I'd focused all my energy on forgetting about that very same reality that keeps him from me, from letting him hold me like he is now, from having him look at me like he has me all figured out - like he's been waiting for this moment to just... just to look at me...

His gaze remains soft, but intense. "Are you going to tell me what made you drink so much or are you just going to stare at me like that?"

"Stare," is my quiet response, because that's all I can allow myself to do, because that's all I'm allowed to do - to stare and watch as he continued to be off-limits to me - for the sake of my career.

But I'm weak, and drunk, and helpless. And he's here with me, stuck in this unmoving elevator, and not out there with the rest of them, celebrating. He's here holding me, touching me, keeping me firm against him while I was struggling to fight the feelings him being this near to me stirs up inside.

His smile is soft and dangerous. Dangerous for me, atleast. "Good," he says softly, bringing one hand up to hold my cheek, running his thumb slowly over my lower lip. "Good..."

I'm not that girl.

I don't know who moved first or if the brush of our noses were caused by one or both of us, but his forehead was now pressed against mine and his thumb was the only thing keeping our lips apart, and for first time - since this whole charade started with management - I'm glad I can finally blame it on the alcohol. Because the torture that is bound to follow after this, after he walks out on me again, is enough to give me a reason to never touch a single drop of alcohol ever again.

My hands, pressed against his chest, curl up and fists his shirt the moment his eyes flicker down to my lips. "How drunk are you?" His warm breath fans over my anticipating lips, but I'm too lost and too far gone in the longing that continues to consume his orbs the longer he stares at my lips.

"I need you to answer me," he urges, his other hand pressing me into him further, making it harder for me to breath in air that didn't carry his scent, "how... how drunk are you?"

"Why?"

"Because I can't, "he swallows whatever words he was going to say, "because I won't allow myself to kiss you if you're drunk."

"I wouldn't allow you to kiss me if I'm sober." I tell him, the truth behind my words nipping away at the edges of the cloud I'm currently floating on.

His eyes shut and he takes a deep breath, moving his hand to the nape of my neck. He sighs, but makes no move to open his eyes, to let me see what's really going on inside of him. "You have me questioning my morals."

"Good." I say, "we finally have something in common."