𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 |𝟏𝟖+

19| Fake it till we make it

But, he is a Capo. Being an empath is not his top priority and responsibility.

Why are you growing soft for him?

He has not done anything to prove himself worthy of you.

You are repeating the same mistake, again, and again.

He did not even have to try. You are right, he easily slithered his way into my cold, broken self that's set to fail, once again.

You are asking to be hurt aren't you? What if he thinks and feels otherwise, that all you ever were to him was a meaningless hookup?

But, his actions, his body, his gaze, his words were telling me a whole another story, oh, disastrous mind.

Keep your distance, don't eagerly set yourself up for another heartbreak, you only have yourself to count, no one would dare to mend you, no one ever did.

I felt my heart flinch and numbed at what my mind had stated.

A reality check that was below the belt, but necessary to keep my distance.

Yet, I found myself obsessively looking into everything in this room that belonged to him. I was observing and analyzing, trying to learn any new detail about him, big or small. I was curious, oh so curious as to find out who was the man who managed to capture my shattered heart with his promising hands, and keep it locked somewhere I'm not aware of, yet.

While I was busy scanning the room, I managed to come across an intriguing painting.

A painting that I've seen and heard of, way too many times, I've lost count, it was one so exquisite and haunting that, it hit a little too close to the paradox I have become.

I've seen this painting before, this painting was present during the set of one of my old films.

The painting consisted of a little kid, who was on the verge of falling, from somewhere above.

The kid, who is on the verge of falling into the pits of the unknown, is attached to strings.

Strings that are maneuvered cautiously and skillfully by multiple sets of hands, whose fingers are all interlaced with the strings which held the little kid.

The rest of the details were all up to the viewer's subjective interpretation.

Whether the kid was a little boy or girl, or just a mere soul, lost or found, happy or sad.

Whether the kid was on the verge of falling to the depths of doom, or on the verge of being rescued by the strings.

I kept staring at the painting with a rather helpless gaze, when I felt his presence entering the room, before I felt his hands which righteously found their home on the sides of my hips. He was embracing me like any genuine lover of mine would do, and that alarmed me to an extent, because I loved it.

He placed a kiss on the side of my forehead, "Tell me, what do you see sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

His voice was like a soft melody, luring me into spilling my deepest, darkest secrets.

He was up to something.

He was trying something out, testing out something.

"Answer my question, sweetheart."

The vague feeling of familiarity that came from being called sweetheart became stronger, and as though I had woken up from a vicious nightmare I loathed, I remember this all from before, all too well. Unwanted memories came rushing back as I thoroughly searched my scattered brain for more repressed memories that will connect the missing pieces, that's when it finally struck me.