Vivienne
He looked at me like I was something precious today.
And I hated how much that shattered my resolve.
I told myself I wouldn't melt.
I told myself I'd stay strong, sip the terrible coffee, keep my voice soft and normal and totally not filled with emotional caffeine withdrawal and heartbreak.
But then he said it.
"There's no 'too much' when it comes to you."
I've waited years—years—for him to say something like that.
Not I like you, not I love you, not even be mine.
Just something that said you're not a burden to me.
I've spent my entire life being told I'm a lot.
Too clingy. Too bubbly. Too loud. Too sparkly. Too attached.
But Damien never said those things.
He just never said anything at all.
Until today.
And now my carefully built emotional castle is crumbling like a sad little sandcastle under a single salty wave.
He's walking next to me again. Not just beside me—with me.
There's a difference.
And I can feel it.
He keeps glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking. He slows down when I fall behind. And when our hands brush for the third time, he doesn't pull away.
Neither do I.
It's pathetic how fast my heart races.
I'm so mad at him. I should be.
But I also just want to crawl into his hoodie and sleep on his chest and pretend the world doesn't exist.
"What's in your coffee?" he asks suddenly.
"Black regret," I mutter.
He snorts. "Want mine?"
I glance at his cup. Creamy. Sweet. Swirly. Everything I actually want.
But I shake my head. "No, I'm... trying to change."
His brow furrows. "Why?"
I shrug and look ahead. "I thought maybe you liked girls who weren't so... obvious."
He stops walking again.
"Viv," he says, stepping in front of me. "I don't want any version of you that's not you."
I blink.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
He can't just say stuff like that and expect me to stay emotionally composed.
So I do the only thing I can manage. I give him a soft, almost-smile and whisper, "Okay."
And then, because my fingers are starving for him, I let my pinky hook around his.
It's not a hug.
It's not me jumping on his back and demanding attention.
It's not fireworks or glitter or dramatic declarations.
It's small. Simple. Quiet.
But it feels like a beginning.
And I think… I think I'm allowed to hope again.