“You feel beautiful and poetic, don’t you?” He asked, his hot breath surrounding me. “You feel so freakin’ surreal, don’t you? You sit there in all your fucking glory, don’t you.” His words were sneers, taunts. They were hurtful.
“Kurt,” I tried, my voice was barely audible. After all, I was nothing without his support. I had fallen and crumbled as soon as he was gone. And now here he was, and there I was- back to my mousy self.
He didn’t seem to hear me, and if he did he pretended not to. Instead he continued, his face inches from my own, his words still attacking the very center of my soul. I sat, quivering under his intense glare, wishing I would disappear. Just gone- not dead, just cease to exist.
It was an odd chance- completely impossible. “Please,” I mumbled. But it was all futile; Kurt was pissed more than ever. And it was all me- all my fault. I had done this. I had made Kurt feel this way. And maybe I was helpless and sort of useless, and maybe I did feel so fucking poetic and beautiful. But I didn’t want Kurt to feel like me. I didn’t want him to feel helpless, and desperate like I did.
I wanted him to feel alright. Like always.
“Kurt,” this time my voice wasn’t as weak. It wasn’t strong, but it was no longer trying to hide, trying to be ignored.
“Fucking hell, Gloria. I fucking.” He was so frustrated, his hands had been running through his dark hair, disheveling to the point where it look like he had just woken up. Unlike most romantic novels, it did not make him look more beautiful, it made him look sad and desperate.
“I,” I wasn’t sure what the correct words were- the words that offered reassurement and love. There were none. Not even a half-witted excuse which would be so blatantly false and he would pretend to believe, all so we could go back to how we were.
I wish I could have spoken.
“Gloria,” Kurt was begging and it was a desperate sight. It made me feel odd; this was not the Kurt I knew. I didn’t like this Kurt. I liked Kurt on a Friday night, with smoke surrounding us and loud music blaring with too much guitar. This Kurt was more like Sunday morning before church. It was bland and boring and much too superficial. It was all the sins of the past six days bundled into a quiet hushed hour.
It was lame.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to speak. Maybe speaking had been our problem. Maybe we spoke too much, maybe we knew too much about each other. That’s why we were hurt, we knew each other too well. We should have stayed strangers.
With my last resolve, I pushed myself off the soft, damp earth beneath the dead oak tree. “Kurt,” and my voice was strong. I could have kissed him, hard on the mouth, revealing every inch of my soul to him. I could have slapped him, told him to fuck off, gotten the point across. I could have, I could have done all of those things and more. Instead, I took a step to the side, and looked at him, not hesitating to meet his empty blue eyes. “We should be strangers.”
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A/N: I finally got back into writing a bit, and I'm mostly doing drabbles because it seems like it's the only thing I can actually sort of write. So yeah, tell me what you think if anyone's reading. x
