It's not like I am deprived of love or starving for affection, that I would run toward anyone who offers me the bare minimum. I know what love looks like, or at least I thought I did. But what I feel with him.
No.
Because of him.
It is something I don't have a name for. It's not quite tenderness, not quite obsession, not quite fate. It sits somewhere between danger and desire, melting into my veins like something I should spit out but can't resist swallowing.
He radiates in a way I've never seen in another human being. Not metaphorically—his presence has a glow. Something warm. Something intoxicating. Something you could almost… salivate on. A hunger that doesn't make sense. A sweetness that feels like it might rot my teeth if I get too close.
Yet here I am, leaning into danger.
On the contrary, I should not let these feelings grow. They feel dangerous. They are obviously dangerous, like vines creeping around my ankles, pulling me somewhere dark.
Somewhere deep.
Somewhere I'm not sure I'll return from.
But his cute gestures haunt me more tenderly than ghosts ever could.
I should admit, they are actually cute.
The way he fixes my hair.
The way he taps my forehead when he thinks I'm overthinking.
I didn't even know when I first started to fall for him. I guess it just happened despite all the things that frightens me.
The way he finds the most ridiculous excuses to be near me—asking if I've seen his pen, if I want to check out a new café, if I can help him "not be bored," which is his favourite lie.
I think this is what love is. Or what I imagined love might be if it were dipped in honey and wrapped in sharp wire.
The way he looks at me—like I'm a secret meant only for him.
The way he smiles at me—crooked, shy, yet entirely too knowing.
The way he takes care of every little thing, I don't even remember telling him about.
Once, I mentioned offhandedly that my ankle hurts when it's cold. The next morning, there was a tiny jar of warming balm in my locker with a note simply saying, "Please don't hurt. – William"
I never told him what locker mine was. Or maybe he figured it out.
I have started to think of him more than the strange boy he is rumoured to be. More than the unsettling whispers people carry behind his back. More than the breathless warnings my heart gave me when it sometimes whispered "he is true as a devil" and that I should stay away.
But I don't want to stay away.
I've started to find his strangeness cute.
His obsession—that once scared me, but now it doesn't.
It feels like it might be the end of me.
I cannot explain what I feel right now, not fully. But all I know is that he still maddens me, fascinates me, terrifies me—and all of that only pulls me in deeper.
...
11:04 PM
William: Are you awake?
I was. Barely. Floating between odd heartbeat rhythms and warmth under my blanket.
-Yes.
His reply came fast.
William: Come outside. I want to see you.
What is he doing outside my house at this hour?
Is he out of his mind? It is freezing cold outside!
Stupid. I whispered. A loud one.
But instead, my stomach fluttered like a thousand trapped wings, and my feet moved before my mind could talk me out of it.
I pulled myself out of my very warm blanket, hopped into the very set of pyjamas right beside my chair, and quietly sneaked out before anyone saw me.
The night air was cool, biting at my skin, but my heart was boiling beneath it. I stepped out onto the porch, hugging myself, scanning the shadows.
He emerged from between the trees like he'd grown there.
Quiet. Slow. Too graceful to be accidental.
"Hi," he said with a smile that made my bones soften.
"Hi," I breathed.
He looked different in the moonlight—sharper, almost. Like an outline drawn in ink rather than pencil. His eyes glimmered with something that felt a little too eager.
"You came fast," he murmured.
"You asked," I replied, trying to laugh it off, but the way he stared at me made my words melt mid-air.
He stepped closer. "You always come when I ask."
A statement, not a compliment. Not even a question.
My heart stuttered. "Is that… a bad thing?"
He tilted his head, the grin widening slowly. "No. It's perfect."
My body warmed at the word, even though something cold slithered up my spine. But love—or whatever this was—has a way of shutting up your instincts.
He reached out, fingers brushing my cheek. "You look tired," he whispered.
"I was trying to sleep."
"You shouldn't sleep without saying goodnight to me," he murmured.
It was strange.
It was possessive.
It should've made me step back.
Instead, I smiled. "I am sorry. I'll try not to forget next time."
He leaned in, close enough that I felt his breath. "Promise me?"
I swallowed. "Promise."
His eyes softened. Or maybe they darkened. I couldn't tell. "Good."
His thumb stroked my jaw, and a thrill ran through me, dangerous and sweet.
"I missed you today," he said.
"You saw me four hours ago." I tried to laugh it off.
"That was too long."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "You're impossible."
"And you're mine," he whispered—so quietly I almost wasn't sure I heard it.
But I did.
And I still didn't run.