It All Started With Hate

csi (e)

Yet...by doing this one thing, Maggie had left something behind in that space that I couldn't ignore.

She couldn't look me in the eye and say that she didn't love me.

It was small. Something so small that others would probably take it for nothing. A stranger would easily consider it nothing at all, maybe even an action of shame on her side or something like that.

I wasn't a stranger to Maggie, though, and she for damn sure wasn't one to me.

I knew her. Small things and big alike.

Maggie Norris. The girl who loves cars, sarcasm, and her friends and family. The girl who hates too much arrogance, people 85% of the time, and awkward conversations.

Now. My Maggie Norris.

My girl who tries to covers her scars on instinct when I see her stomach, but lets me move her hands so that I can pay them extra love with my kisses. She puts her hair up when she's nervous or doesn't feel comfortable around someone or about something, which is why she wears it down most around me. She used to hate to be vulnerable, because she thought it'd make her weak, despite being the strongest girl in the world in my eyes. That was why we were most comfortable with each other, because we knew the other better than anyone in the world.

She never knows where or what she wants to eat, but loves when I ask her, anyway, despite her attitude. She used to hate flowers, but she loves getting them from me, and only me. She gets this adorable scowl that makes the corner of her top lip curl when I piss her off enough. And she scrunches up her nose in the cutest, most sexiest way whenever she's trying to stay mad at me for teasing her, but always ends up laughing anyway.

Sarcasm is her first language before all else. When she's anxious, she likes to either work on one of our cars, or read about them. She likes to sleep on my chest the most, and if not that, then under me with my arms around her. When she's asleep, she always gives the cutest smiles and snuggles right into my chest when I trace hearts into her skin. She's my girl who has the most corniest puns and riddles possible, ones I'll always be quiet and listen to just because she looks beautiful saying them.

My girl who always wears this sweet gloss that tastes like vanilla ice cream since she knows I'll kiss it off, despite her scolding about it. My girl whose cheeks go as red as a tomato the moment I kiss them after giving her honest compliment after another. My girl.

Again.

Maggie Norris. The girl who has had to lie for years in order to survive her father, and the things he left behind for her, both mentally and physically. The girl who swore herself terrible and undeserving for doing exactly that. The girl whose very lies I was able to read through without even trying, even when I didn't want to.

One more, then I'll shut up. Maybe.

My Maggie Norris. My girl who, when she had tried to lie to me in the past, could never hold eye contact with me, and even if she managed to, her voice dips over the lie the moment it reaches the ear. I had seen her lie to other people, and they were the ones she could look at and voice the lie over an honest tongue with, but not me. Never me. Even when we were enemies.

Maggie couldn't look me in the eye and say that she didn't love me.

Because it was a lie.

Why Maggie felt the need to tell it, though, I had no fucking clue.

It didn't take much to figure out. Past the heartbreak, the tears, and all fuck else she inflicted that day, my mind wouldn't let me forget that one thing, even through the pain.