This chapter is a bit different then the others, and even though it was hard work to write it felt like it flowed so easily. I really enjoyed writing this chapter, and reckon I may write in Zanthus' point of view a bit more often from here out!
Please-give review/critique where necessary. I am learning the best approach to write in his head and would love all the pointers and recommendations I can get! Enjoy loves. xx
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Zanthus POV
I can't do anything to hinder the tears streaming down my face as I sit in the front seat of my car outside of my empty house. I never wanted it to be like this, I sure as hell didn't want for that whole ordeal to go how it did. I thought I would just be with Angel, and yes I know it's still hard for her to deal with me not talking all too much.
My relationship with her is different. Well, it has to be really, that is until I feel comfortable enough to talk to her on a regular basis. Of course, I can do the minimum, small talk, and short conversations, but I don't know if it'll ever get too far past that. Honest, I'm not sure if I even want to do that anymore. The whole situation with her brother was absolutely mortifying, and I wouldn't be surprised if Angel never wanted to see me again because of it if she thought I was some sort of freak for how I acted.
I hate that I can't be confident in myself, that I can't just walk back in there and explain everything to her, to William. I wish I could, but my mum's words won't stop ringing in my head and I can't help but regret ever going inside in the first place. I can't help but regret ever expecting the night to go well, ever talking to Angel, ever thought I'd be good enough for her. I truly hope I never have to say a word to her ever again.
Though it's not that I don't want to talk to her, I do. I want to talk to her an awful lot.
I want to ask her what her favourite colors are and I want to tell her how exquisitely beautiful she looks every day. I want to greet her in the mornings and ask her what she had for breakfast, how her morning's been. I want to ask her what she liked to do growing up, what she likes to do now. I want to ask her about what things make her happy, what makes here her. I want to with every inch of my being.
I want to but I just cannot.
I never thought it would be this difficult. I never dreamt it would be, and at first, it wasn't
At first, it was just a child thing. Sure, the other kids in my classes were already having fluent conversations and I really wasn't, but I was only five years of age. Just a late bloomer. I'd catch up soon enough.
Maybe it was odd that I turned six and still struggled tenfold to all my peers, and some, but it would all be fine. Maybe it was odd that I could barely go a second without stumbling over my letters, my words, but it would all be just fine. I still had some time to fall into line with everyone else, that's what the school told my parents when my first-year teacher had called a meeting
