She is a fever, longing still

chapter 7

( 1579 words :)

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After leaving her, I called my parents. I was crying again. I told them she wanted me to come back, that she agreed to let me stay with her, that she was okay with it, that she didn't mind.

I couldn't believe she was willing to tolerate it. Had I known, I would have tried sooner. I would have called her the first week I left. I should have done that. I shouldn't have been so scared.

I went to the florist and bought her the prettiest rose bouquet there was. I bought the prettiest card and wrote thank you. For letting me back into her life. For accepting it.

I was almost numb because I was feeling that much. Do you know that feeling? I sure as hell didn't before that day. Not really. I thought I did, but I was foolish.

When I get back to the hotel room, the flowers are still there and I wonder if she even came here to begin with. And I notice the sheets from the bed are moved from how I left them a few days ago. So she stayed here, either for a night or during the day. I don't know, but it makes me glad she took this as an opportunity to flee whatever is bothering her. That my place, no matter what that may be, is a safe place for her.

I get my stuff, I organize my things, I do what I have to do until I hear her trying to get in with the card I asked to be demagnetized. I rush there to open it for her. "You're here," I say. I can't not smile. I can't.

"You're back." She sounds breathless and I love it. She's surprised but in a good way. I think. I hope. Let's believe she is.

"Yeah, I was actually about to leave for my apartment," I tell her, "do you want to go with me?"

She doesn't answer and just freezes and it's so so adorable I really can't stop smiling. "Sure."

I hide my chuckle and take the bouquet, "alright, take this." I give it to her and watch her reaction discreetly.

She takes it. She looks at it like it's lovely. She looks at it the way I look at her when she does anything other than pay attention to me. Because she looks so lovely when she forgets I'm there. She used to hate it and I love that.

"Since when are these here?"

It's not a real question. She knows how long they have been here. She saw them. She was unsure if it was for her or not. It irritates me. Why would I do anything for anyone else? "Since you first came and didn't take the hint." Next time she won't doubt it. "I guess I'll just have to be a bit more obvious next time."

She looks at me. Pretends not to notice the way my tiny beard is gone, the way I look more joyous than terrified, the way I look—overall—better by asking, "they're for me??"

It makes me want to tease her so badly. I want to make her stop that game she always plays and admit she loves my face. Because she does. She really does. She told me so once. She was half asleep and told me she loved my pretty face. It makes me smile stupidly. "Who else could it be for?"

I take my things out while she holds the door for me. I almost kiss her forehead while passing by her the last time. But I know better. I won't risk that at the door of a hotel room.

"Do you need help?" she asks. Fuck, she's adorable. No! I won't give up to the temptation. I won't.

"Don't worry about me, just focus on walking straight and not fall, you'll hurt yourself." She almost rolls her eyes and I can't help but stare. She's always had such a nice face. I never told her that. I can't. I never really knew what was considered pretty before—except being skinny—so I didn't know if it was a subjective point of view or if it was an objective truth. I've come to the only conclusion possible.

Other people find her pleasing to look at too. It is a universal phenomenon.

And I hate it. I hate that people give her attention solely based on her looks when it's such a little part of her. I hate that people other than me get to see her beauty now. I hate that she might care about their opinion more than mine. I hate that she cares in the first place. I hate that she's so impossibly beautiful, and I'm not the only one to enjoy it anymore.

But it's better that way. I don't wish for things to be different. I would never wish for that. I don't want the bullying to happen again, I want people to keep worshipping her as I have since I know of her. I want my jealousy to keep me going in that purpose. I want to be the one she thanks and notices because I worship her more than any other person. I want her to see that people kiss her ass while I kiss the gravel, the cement she walks on. And I want her to accept it as the bare minimum of attention I should give her, because it is.

I only notice when she groans, but she's texting someone. I hope it's loud girl. I hope Andrea gets annoyed with her. I hope she throws her away and takes me instead. I hope she makes me the closest person to her again. I close my eyes to get rid of those thoughts that make me feel more possessive than loving. And I can't allow more possessiveness than I already have in the past.

She rolls her eyes. I can't fucking help it. I really want to push her against a random car and make her sigh. I want to kiss her everywhere. I want that angry attitude all over me. I want her to roll her eyes at me. Why does that loud girl get so much? Why does her anger not belong to me, really? I don't want to share any of her with anyone.

I need serious help.

I look at her more—I really need to stop that—and notice she gets angrier and angrier, and even though she looks incredibly sexy, it angers me too and I frown. Because how dare someone anger her? How dare they disturb her with anything? How dare anyone but me anger her?

I should talk to my therapist.

She looks at me and says, "just Philo." I knew it. How dare she.

Professional help might not be very effective with jealousy.

I try to find something, anything positive to say about that loud idiot and come up with something that's actually not so much of a lie. "She slightly reminds me of Clem." Clem isn't as loud, she's just very energetic and talks for three people. And she respects boundaries. She stays quiet when needed.

"Yeah, I gue-" She stutters her mouth shut and her eyes are on my car. Heavy staring at it. "Is this your car?"

"Yes." Yes? Is she disappointed? No. She looks at it like it's some lovely thing. Just like the roses earlier, but less pronounced.

I open the trunk and look at her every time I can or have an excuse to do so as she helps me. She gives me the roses and I almost get confused. Is she rejecting me by that? But then I realize she did that mindlessly, as she did with everything else.

"Well, have a good day then." She starts walking away and I stare at her, not understanding. Then I walk to her, almost run actually.

"Come with me? Please??"

"I can't leave my bike here. Sorry." Bike? Who cares about the damn bike.

"Let's just take it then. Stay by the car and make sure no one steals it" I say. "Or you." I couldn't help it.

She rolls her eyes. Fucking hell I love it. "You don't even know which one it is."

I almost burst out a laugh but I contain it. "I don't think many people leave their unprotected bike outside the entrance of a hotel."

I bring the bike and make it fit in the backseat, somehow. I don't remember. I can only recall the way she was looking at me. Like she was impressed. Like she thought I was attractive. She was mindlessly checking me out, not really bothering to pay attention or care if I was aware of it or not. She probably wasn't even aware of it herself.

I wish I could allow myself one look. I'd love to return that look to her. To check her out and make her understand I find her extremely attractive. But I'm afraid I can't relax so much.

I walk to her side and open the door for her. She looks surprised but doesn't say anything, doesn't complain and just lets me. My good girl.

I get to my side and start the car. She's so close I'm having trouble even focusing on anything but her hands on her thighs. I could hold her hand. I could try. Like an experiment. No, bad idea. I shouldn't.