What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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The Weeknd ft. Gesafelstein - Hurt You.
~
APOLOGIES ARE WASTES OF TIME.
I wasn't taught to be apologetic. My papa wasn't, so naturally...I toed his coarse footsteps.
Just like I don't like to hear apologies, I like apologizing to people even less. I have never apologized to anyone except my mama in my entire life. And it's more of necessary culture than etiquette, because I know that she doesn't care for apologies either. She always said that they don't fix mistakes.
I've offended more than a large number of people, yes, but I've never felt the need to make up for my actions. Then again, regret and contrition are the birth mothers of apologies and I've never felt those either.
Never felt those...until her. And Lord knows that I don't fucking know why she's the chosen one who's pulling all these weak-ass emotions from the most reluctant part of me.
Fuck. She's as annoying as she is stubborn.
When I saw her walk into the kitchen with her rude-ass best friend and my oversized jacket clothing her bare body, I instantly - secretly - wanted all her research to meet a dead end, so that I would have six extra months with her...like her deal with me in my car that fateful afternoon stated.
I never really gave it much thought because I never believed her, but in that moment, the possibility of my being wrong and her being right flashed before my eyes. I couldn't handle the outcome of that possibility, so I hoped that flashdrive was empty; I wished it wouldn't contain evidence proving her innocence.
But it wasn't empty. And the outcome of that possibility is now a reality. Alaina hates my sorry ass. She hates me more than she's ever hated me, and just like I'd thought, I can't fucking handle it.
I shouldn't care about what the fuck she feels. All I did was make an honest mistake; hell, even she was fooled. Everybody thought she was the murderer; all the evidence pointed at her. If she were in my shoes, she'd have done the exact same thing...
It's been an entire week away from her in fucking cowardice, just thinking up all these goddamn reasons to find one viable enough to convince myself not to care about her emotions. And yet, regardless of all my thoughts to talk myself out of giving a fuck, I give a fuck. I give more than a fuck. I care massively about what's been going through her mind since that night.
I also know what she wants.
But I don't know if I can give it to her. I'm too fucking proud to.
"What's your mama's address?" I ask her on impulse—the quietness in the car was getting overbearing and I just had to say something to get her to talk. It's been such a while since I heard her voice. A week to be exact.
