λισσα (beautyinsleep) wrote in beautyinprose,
λισσα
beautyinsleep
beautyinprose

Clarity


Original: real-life.
Romance. Drabble.


---




You'd tried, you really had, not to let it bother you. You know he tells you things, things about his past with her, to help you, to help this relationship. And he doesn't mean to, but some of those things, you take them the wrong way. Like when he says there isn't a point to going through old pictures of the last year and a half of his life. It won't do him any good. The best case scenario is that he'd be thinking about another girl, and the worst is that he might miss something.

It might've been stupid, but you're naive and a dreamer and stupid in some ways, and for some reason you'd thought, you'd assumed, that he wouldn't miss the past, wouldn't miss her. You hadn't even considered it until now, and the old (and current) insecurities start to talk again.

He keeps on talking, goes on to other topics, and you're listening, but you're still focused on what he said earlier. It shows, you know it does, because you're gazing off into the distance, at that poster of Will Turner on the back of your door, the floor that needed to be vacuumed a month ago, the clothes you still haven't unpacked from spring break, the pink-wrapped chocolate hearts on your dresser. Anything but his eyes (except for maybe once or twice). You're not talking much either, nodding here and there, putting in a few words now and then, just to maintain some semblance of normality (because sometimes you don't talk much anyway and he's getting used to that).

The conversation, if you can call it that, finally winds down, and he asks if you're ready to leave. You murmur something in the positive, and he gets up from the chair at your desk. He reaches down, takes your hands to pull you from the bed where you've been sitting, and maybe you don't pull back, but there is some kind of resistance.

He looks down at you, and you look up at him, finally, and you can feel the dam begin to burst. Your lips start to tremble, and the tears you've been holding back for the past hour begin to rise and surface. There are most likely some elevated hormones also at work here, but that's no excuse, and you hate crying in front of him, hate acting like a stupid overemotional girl.

"What's wrong?" He sits down on the bed next to you, takes you in his arms. "What's wrong, baby?" It's the first time he's called you that, and you hadn't thought you would like that endearment, but somehow you do, very much.

You finally muster out, "I guess talking about her hurts more than I thought."

He holds you closer as you start to cry again, harder. "Can you tell me what you're thinking? Was it something I said? I never meant to hurt you."

It doesn't take you as long to get out what has you upset as it usually does, and you explain how you'd assumed for some reason that he wouldn't miss her. It was probably stupid, you know, but you hadn't even considered it until he said that.

"I don't miss her. I promise that's true. I wouldn't go back to that, not even if I could. I want to stay right where I am now."

You cling to him, to his words, your head against the crook of his neck, fingers grasping his shoulder. You're all teary-eyed and snotty-nosed and messing up his shirt, but he doesn't care; you need him so he'll rock you and comfort you until everything's right again, if he can help it.

Out of the muddle comes this single, clear thought: You're where you belong, in his arms, and he's where he wants to be, holding you.



Tags: original
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