He stirred before dawn, lips brushing my neck like an apology.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” I whispered back.
And then we just lay there, hearts slow and stupid with wanting.
We didn’t ride out until late. He was quiet in the way people are when they’re content. I was quiet in the way people are when they’ve chosen their cage.
He thinks I’m just shy. Or haunted. Or maybe he thinks I’m slowly coming around. He doesn’t know this is the closest I’ll ever be allowed to get.
Tonight, after he fell asleep, I pulled out the journal. I’ve written hundreds of pages in my life. Thousands. But this one—this is the one that hurts the most.
Tomorrow, I won’t tell him who I am.
Because I love him.
And because that love has to be enough.
I will leave soon. I don’t know when. But it will be soon.
He cannot know me.
And I cannot stay.
He stirred before dawn, lips brushing my neck like an apology.
“Hey,” he whispered.
“Hey,” I whispered back.
And then we just lay there, hearts slow and stupid with wanting.
We didn’t ride out until late. He was quiet in the way people are when they’re content. I was quiet in the way people are when they’re about to jump.
Tonight, after he fell asleep, I pulled out the journal. I’ve written hundreds of pages in my life. Thousands. But this one—this is the one that matters.
Tomorrow I will tell him who I am.
Not what I am. Who.
And if he runs, I’ll understand.
But I think—I hope—he won’t.
