Things were good. That was the problem.
Good was dangerous. Good meant I was forgetting to be careful – letting my guard slip, letting the walls stay down, letting myself exist in the space between fake and real without forcing a definition. We studied in room 3B three times a week and his foot always found mine under the table and I always let it stay and neither of us talked about what he'd said against the wall outside the rink.
I don't want this to be fake anymore.
I hadn't answered. He hadn't asked again. But the words sat between us like a lit match on a paper tablecloth – ignored, undiscussed, quietly burning through everything underneath.
The blog was the only place I could be honest.
I wrote at night, after Sienna fell asleep, the screen glow turning my dorm room blue. Anonym
