The Unrequited

“A lover is the one who waits,” he paraphrases. “Then, I’ll wait. Forever.”

We’re soul mates, Thomas. You’re like my favorite song. You have to talk. You can’t live like this. You’re holding on too tight. You remind me of some kind of fire-breather.

Layla Robinson, the fire-breather.

My fire-breather.

“This is what happens when you do something I specifically told you not to. This is what happens when you strut in here in your short skirt and purple fucking coat and give me those big, violet eyes.”

Thomas tenses. “I never knew. I wondered, though.”

“What?”

His eyes roam around, from the tops of my breasts to my belly button ring. “That you blush with your whole body.” I blush harder, making him chuckle.

A cup of coffee is a pocketful of sunshine for you.

“No, you’re not. You hate me. You’re always giving me a death glare, like I’m responsible for, I don’t know, terrorism or global warming or something.”

“It-It burns when you look at m-me,” I whisper, my tongue feeling heavy.

“Flames dance in your eyes, in them the fire resides.

Turning me into ashes. Black and p-powdery.

It…It’s a slow process. My disintegration.”

“Jesus, Layla. Look at yourself. You need to take care of yourself.

I want to see him. I want to see the beginnings of my ruination.

But no—this is the aftermath of his lust for me, agonizing and glorious.