How to lose Hazza in 10 days || h.s. [english]

➳ Day #2 * eight days to go

➳ Day #2 * eight days to go

// To want to tackle everything rationally is irrational //

And then there was the muscle pain. Innocent muscle pain. Not so alarming, right? Although it was getting worse every day –when looking back it did anyway–, I got used to it. I didn’t take it seriously. Maybe it was only a result of me being tired. Probably I just had a vitamin deficiency or something like that.

--

I feel honoured he’s trying this much. For the second day in a row, he’s desperately trying to conjure back the old me. I know I’m not the one I used to be, or better said: I’m not the one he thinks I am… If he only knew he never had known the real me. When I met him, my ‘sentence’ already scarred me and changed me for life. But at that time I still fought. I had had still some hope left. But now I needed to let go. Let him go.

His clingy behaviour is causing a flood of emotions.

He cares about me. He really does care about me.

My guilt grows and grows. The more I realize how much he cares about me, the more I regret starting this lie.

I feel like a coward. I don't even have the guts to tell him it’s over, that I have to go.

But I don't dare to tell him. The hope in his eyes causes me to hope too. As long as I don’t tell him, it’s not definitive. Although I know this is outright bullshit, I start to really believe it. That last straw, you know…

On the outside he looks calm. He tries not to pay attention at my strange behavior. But I see it takes a lot more effort than he would ever admit. He’s dying inside. I curse myself. I hate myself. For the way I make him feel. For everything I’m doing to him.

We are lying on my bed. I lie on my back, he on his side with his eyes fixed on me. He holds my hand. His thumb caress my skin, rhythmically, trying to calm me down. A movie is playing, a comedy I guess, but don't ask me which one 'cause I honestly don't give a fuck.

I'm staring at the flashing images, but the story isn't penetrating my brain. As if the movie is played accelerated, but it's my brain that's working in delay.

He moves my hand, putting it on his chest. His fast pulse is clearly tangible trough his thin shirt. I feel even more guilty now. I upset him. I hurt him. And the only thing I'm trying to do is protect him from pain that's even worse. I'm hurting him while I'm trying my best not to. And I'm trying to protect our memories, our memories can't be contaminated by what's going to happen. It ruins our present and our future, but our past should be protected from it!

I'm still staring at the television. Once in a while, I carefully glance at his face. The painful, worried frown on his forehead makes me cringe. The agony in his eyes feels like a dagger going through my heart.

His eyes meet mine. They aren't the same as they did before. A thousand questions are dancing in his irises. The otherwise vivid green is surprisingly cold, as if the life in it is frozen. He smiles at me, encouraging me to speak up. But his eyes aren't laughing along.

"C'mon dear," he whispers hoarsely.

I look away, afraid he could be able to read my mind.

"Please tell me what's wrong," he continues.

But I still don't look at him. I can't lie anymore. It's becoming more and more difficult. He's the only person I want to be honest with. But I can't. I just can't.

I feel his disappointment, it cuts right trough the deafening silence. And he does to.

"Okay," he says with a sigh, "I don't think you're gonna tell me right now."

Right conclusion. I'm glad he gives up on this one. I look him in the eye. I shake my head and give him a faint smile; he's right about me not telling him. I wrap my arms carefully around him, tiptoeing to get closer to his ear.

"Thank you," I whisper, fragile but sincere, relieved he let this one go.

I quickly press my lips on his cheekbone, before letting my weight sink back onto my heels.

// The word unspoken never does harm //

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