Short Fiction

Letter #3

People whisper about us in the hallways, but you always steer me away before I can hear them. Your aloofness has a legendary status in the school; I’m not going to flatter myself and think that you’re bothered by their words, so that must mean you’re hiding something.
You hide so much for me, though, so I can’t say I’m surprised. I only know the urban myths about you and I realize you intend to keep it that way. Yet I can’t help but wonder what you keep from my prying eyes. Just the other day, you smothered me in a kiss that left me gasping in your arms just so I wouldn’t see the woman that passed our car in the grocery store parking lot. The kiss left me with the strange taste of your lip gloss on my tongue along with more curiosity that draws me to you.
My parents definitely don’t approve of you, but I already know you couldn’t care less. I still remember the day my father hurled the lamp at my head and suddenly you were there, gathering me up in your prized leather jacket, throwing back the most poisonous words at him. You took me to your room and held my face in your hands as I traced the freckled constellations on your cheekbones.
And I’ll never forget the time when I confessed what happened to me last year, and how you leaned your head against mine, never saying a word, but the clench in your fingers promised blood.
You already know all the jagged parts of me, the girl that I try to hide at school, the one who knows destruction like a second language. I’m as open as a newly blossomed flower to you.
I’ll be waiting for the day when you’ll be the same. And if that day never comes, then I’ll be fine with that.

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