𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

used to lie to your face,
twenty times in a day,
it was my little strange addiction
-Gracie Abrams

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I sleep over at Dalton's. My dorm is too quiet without Frankie, and I've never liked the quiet. Or sleeping alone. So even though I'll get no sleep, I crawl into bed with Dalton and let him place his head on my shoulder.

The room is dark, but there's a glow from his laptop so I can make out his expression. There's a crease between his eyebrows, and he's running his thumb along my cheek. "What are you thinking about?" I ask.

"You."

I sigh. "What about me?"

He rolls onto his back. "Khalil was telling me about Talia, the other night."

"What's that have to do with me?" I frown, and when he sighs, I know where the conversation is headed. I pinch the skin on my arm; my eyes sting from the pain.

"He said she was a virgin when they met."

"She was. Past tense."

"Yeah...they only dated for like a week before he made her his girlfriend."

"And took her virginity?" I sit up. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know." But he groans, rubs a hand over his face. "I know you want to wait, and I'm okay with that—"

"But. There's always a but," I snap. "You can't say your okay with it, and then always follow it up with a but. It makes it sound like you really aren't okay with it."

Now he's sitting up. He takes my hand into his. His pale face is basked in the glow from his laptop; his eyes look especially blue. "I am okay with it, Vio. Really, whatever you want to do. I just want to understand why. Why don't you want to be with me?"

"I do want to be with you, Dalton. That's why I am here." I throw off the covers. "But if you keep comparing us to your friends and their timelines and their sex lives—then I'm not going to want to be here."

I start to climb out of his bed, but he grabs the back of my pajamas. "Wait, Violet, don't go," he says. "I get it, I'm an asshole." I look back at his face, and because I'm soft, I hear him out. "You're right, and I'm sorry. It's just that I love you, and it really isn't easy to lay here next to you, every night, and not be able to touch you."

He's only frustrated because he cares, I remind myself.

It's because he loves me that he acts like an idiot.

I fold into his arms, and let him nuzzle back into my neck. His thumb returns to my cheek. I can feel his breaths, his chest moving up and down. And I imagine he can feel my jaw tense. My shoulders and my neck, too.

"I really do love you, Violet."

"And I love you, too," I say, and I tell myself that I mean it.

I really think that I mean it.

✩ ✩ ✩

I wake up before he does. I slip out of his arms, and into a pair of wrinkled sweatpants. I throw my tote bag over my shoulder, and look out the window. Students walk along the paved pathways, getting an early morning start. Jogging in winter gear or stumbling back from fraternity row in tiny skirts, heels in hand.

When I slip out into the hall, Tenny is sat on the floor. His back pressed against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, he thumbs through a book. I happen to catch the cover: To the Lighthouse. The copy looks worn.