thoughts from our heroine. She’s well. Just tired of her obsession. So I wrote her some notes on fireproof paper.
She closes her eyes and lets her fingers trace lines on his back, feeling an imaginary ocean beneath the waves of his breathing. She could drown there.
“Careful,” she whispered. Too late. He’s made a bed in her heart and the thoughts he dreams there consume them both.
“Are you sure?” He asks. And she’s undone.
She can’t aim to please. She can only crawl and beg his forgiveness when she fails.
Poor broken girl. I should just pack her away. Nothing ever goes her way anymore.