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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭-𝐡𝐮𝐢𝐭
𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍
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H E R
Here is a painful fact about me:
I don't know how to keep anything to myself.
Here is another one:
The only feeling I could bring myself to process over this entire endeavor was guilt.
The next few days were excruciating. The urge to tell someone was unbearable. I was raised Catholic, I was used to confessing my sins to rid myself of them. And as much as I had come to respect Father Gabriel, it didn't feel right telling him. While I didn't exactly regret my actions, I knew it wasn't something God would be pleased about but I couldn't even fathom what Maggie and Glenn's reactions would be.
Those two had done nothing but watch out for me and care for me like one of their own. Their only rule had always been: Be careful. And what had I done? Gone and stamped all over it with my damned hormones and stupidity. Especially whenever Maggie stroked my hair like she had used to do to Beth or how Glenn and I snuck the last of Abraham's favorite cereal and shared the bowl in the bathroom as to avoid getting caught. The words were constantly on the tip of my tongue. I was always quite the chatter-box, and having something I couldn't talk about was a rarity. I felt like they could tell, could see the difference in me.
Mostly, I tried not to think about it. What Carl and I had done was far more than kissing. We could not just abandon all thought of it from our memory, well, at least I couldn't. Sometimes I'd catch my brain wandering towards it, reaching out hesitantly in the hazy direction of that night. My breath would catch in my throat. A shiver would send up my spine. And all I could fathom of was Carl. How he felt. What we did. Gentle warmth, soft touches, lips ghosting over mine, his skin—
