Thea would say she "Isn't like other girls," if the phrase wasn't so disgustingly trendy. With a personality more salty than the Dead Sea itself, the attractive allure of a cactus, a peculiar hatred for feminist self-victimhood, and occasionally acc...
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I feel warm. Condensation builds on the inside of my windshield and I have the heater on full blast to clear it. Goosebumps line my arms beneath my sweater and my hands tremble with shivers as I grasp the cold steering wheel. It is just warm enough for the rain not to ice over on the roads but I am warm. Warmth is the only way I know how to describe this feeling that disperses throughout my chest and loosens the tension in my shoulders.
I look beside me and Killian smiles from the passenger seat.
I feel warmer.
"Where to?" I ask.
"Drive like you are going to my place, then I will tell you where to go from there," he responds.
I follow his directions and he instructs me to continue further up the mountain, past the community of Moonrise. Killian's eyes are closed as he rests his head against the door frame, relaxing in the quiet mood. I find myself smiling a little. Killian, that uncoordinated, shy, awkward, pretty boy likes me. No, no he can't possibly like me, but what if he does? What if he doesn't?
I have hardly gotten any sleep the past two days as I have been busy reviewing every interaction of ours since we met. The evidence I have in support of his affection towards me is astounding, but I do not know if that is just my vanity getting in the way. But it isn't vanity, is it? I say vanity because I cannot imagine why he would like me at all--why anyone would like me--therefore I classify my conclusion as a by product of wishful thinking and my superiority complex disrupting my perception. Is that vanity or is it self destruction? I cannot decide which is worse.
Killian's affections could be romantic and I can see the complications which would ensue if that is indeed the case, but at the same time, the idea that I could be wrong is--is... It gives me the feeling of having wet socks, only worse. The thought of Killian caring about me brings a warmth to my chest that I cannot quite explain. It feels like coming home, like a child's excitement, like safety, like--I can't even find the words to describe it.
The feeling of simply being with him is terrifyingly perfect. It is the satisfaction of magically getting all of the homework questions right on the first try, the thrill of playing hide-and-go-seek in Walmart at midnight, and the longing of staring at a postcard of one of the places you have always wanted to see. I feel so much all at one time that I wonder if I have never truly felt any excitement, any satisfaction or any comfort before and am only just now scratching the surface of what it really means to feel.
Everything I said last Saturday was true. Killian surely cares about someone but I still pray it isn't me. Why? Because love is a waste of time. Love is a waste of time, never permanent and painful in the most hollow of ways. These feelings I have now, they scare me. They scare me because I know they are temporary. They feel so good and one day it won't be enough--I won't be enough and Killian will be gone. Killian will be gone and I will be left empty with a crater-sized hole in my chest where all of these warm feelings that are just for him will be gone.
