Not Enough

*113*

*TW: this chapter might be sensitive for some people to read*

Saniya

Almost half an hour has gone by when I hear the water shut off, and pretty much the entire time I've done nothing but sit here in complete silence, not even on my phone, with my bag and my stole in my lap. I mean, it wasn't technically silent for me, given that in my mind I've been thinking nonstop about what I'm going to say, what I should do, how I should approach the conversation, all of that stuff.

A few more moments go by before he eventually opens the curtain, revealing himself now wearing a simple pair of black sweats along with a white, tight fitting tank top that lets me see what I couldn't before, and I can't help but notice that his hair looks to be damp as well, letting me know he washed it. My eyes skim the top of his body, and I realize that he's gained more muscle than I last remember, though only slightly.

His shoulders are slightly wider and his arms are firmer, more veiny. The white fabric of the tank top lets me see his torso beautifully, allowing me to see the outline of his firm, toned stomach. Everything about how he looks causes butterflies to flutter in my stomach, and after an embarrassingly long moment I finally stop my gawking, instead bringing my eyes up where I can see a neutral expression on his face.

However his eyes aren't on me as he seemingly keeps with his act of pretending like I'm not even here. Just as he begins his way past me toward the door again I finally try to assert myself by standing up, not caring for my stole or bag that fall to the floor, and grabbing his wrist before he can go any further. His close proximity let's me take in his scent, a contrasting yet well fitting mix of vanilla and patchouli, masculine yet soft, causing my stomach to once again flutter before I pull myself together and look up at him to once again see that his eyes refuse to meet mine, instead staying glued to the floor.

Surprisingly he doesn't try to pull himself out of my grasp, though I can tell he doesn't want to be in it either, but not wanting to let this silence get dragged on for any longer I finally ask what I've been meaning to.

"Can we talk?"

I almost regret my question as I notice the annoyance and frustration creep onto his face yet again, but I say almost because if I don't initiate anything, I don't think a conversation will happen. Even though he was implying that he wanted, or that he was even eager to talk, he's made no efforts to do so.

He shuts his eyes, as if debating his answer in his mind, and I can see how his jaw clenches as he thinks about my words. I know him well enough to know that he doesn't intend on responding, leading me to change my tone into a more pleading one and try again.

"Please?"

His eyes open, once again making their way to the floor, and his face seems to soften a bit with my gentle tone, but still, no words leave his mouth. I decide to try and encourage him by sitting back down on his bed, continuing to look up at him, and even though he still doesn't make eye contact, I can see him finally give in inside his mind. He pulls his hand out of my grasp, and instead of sitting next to me like I thought he would, he sits at the other edge of the bed with his hands now in his lap.

I don't say anything, given that I did the same thing to him at the party, and already I feel the air between us grow thick with discomfort on both our ends.

"Evan, I . . ." I struggle figuring out how to start the conversation, where to begin, before I eventually continue with the most important thing I know I need to say. "I'm sorry, for everything. I'm sorry for being an asshole. I'm sorry for what I put you through and had I known how it would've affected you, I wouldn't have done it."