Pensive [Pansy Parkinson] ✔️

iii. blaise

iii. Blaise

I sat at our table,
you skipped dinner again.
Tracey is talking
but I don't make an effort to look interested.
Vincent and Greg are getting suspicious,
they caught you leaving my room again.
Theo, as per usual, is all over Daphne

Me?
I stare blankly at the food on my plate.
I don't eat it.
I don't talk.
I just think.
Like I always do,
especially about the things
that concern you.

"Why do you do it?"
It was more who asked
that surprised me rather than what is asked.

I stared up at a pair of chocolate brown eyes,
which were flaring with unfathomable emotions.

"I don't know what you mean."
I tell him, with a blank stare,
a shaky heart,
and a perfectly convincing
nonchalance.

However,
Blaise does not believe me.
I see it in the look he gave me.
A slight twist of his lips
and the hesitant curl of his brows.
He seem to always see right through me.
Through my lies, my façade,
even the highest walls I've built up.
But for the first time,
I am terrified.

Because the only thing worse than
being a one night stand
is having somebody who asks you about it.

What the hell do I even say?
I have no idea what to say.

I sigh and brush my hair over my shoulder
and I pretend that I am clueless.
I pretend.
Apparently, it is something I am best at.
I pretend that I don't feel foolish after the sex,
I pretend to feel something other than shame when you leave me alone in my bed every morning.
I pretend like nothing is going on between you and I.
I pretend that I have no idea what Blaise is asking me.

I pretend because the truth is already painful
and it hurts even worse when I am not pretending.

Then, I saw it.
A flicker.
A tiny ember in the pool of brown.

Anger.

He is angry.
Maybe at me. Or at you.
Or maybe at both of us.

Then,
he said the truth I never thought
anyone was capable of telling me,

"You were nothing more than a goodnight shag for him! He doesn't love you, he never will. He's treating you like you're disposable. Why can't you ever see that?!"

I know he didn't mean it.
But the magnitude of those words, of that truth, was hard enough to make my chest cave.
And although I wanted to cry,
I pretend that I am tough and I yell back,

"Because it feels fucking good to be disposable! There. Satisfied?"