[All I Want by Kodaline]

SIX: when recovery is repetitive and reflective.

I wasn't sure why it felt like I owed something to everyone who loved me.

I owed it to Abuelita for sneaking alcohol into the hospital, kissing her forehead with liquor on my lips. I owed it to my mother for making her life so much harder than it needed to be.

My recovery was never about me, my life really wasn't either. I didn't live that way, the way I tried to live was for the betterment of... someone. It didn't matter who, from the moment I realized that I had a passion, a true, all consuming passion... my dream was to impact someone with it.

I set out to live in such a way that I'd do more good than anything. I always tried. I never slacked on a dream that I was so invested in, I liked scheduling my life in decades, in plans for the future.

I hated the uncertain.

And my recovery was no better.

-

My mother hated alcohol.

That was something she never really budged on. My father, since I could remember, always took a shot before work. Maybe he needed it, disguised it as something to take the edge off, I didn't understand it until I'd gotten older.

He'd come home and sit in our garage, watch soccer and reruns that he'd missed over work and use that time to wind down, beer in hand. I'd go in, I'd sit beside him, we wouldn't speak.

We never really spoke, that was just how it was. There wasn't much to talk about and he never really related to me anyways.

I thought it was the fact that I preferred art, I think it was that he already knew. I think they all kind of knew, looking back.

It was something he wanted with Milo but my thirteenth year of life really put a strain on everything. Maybe to my parents, it felt like they needed to pick sides. I wasn't sure what side they were choosing but it felt like mine after a while.

Even if I didn't live at home, when I came back, they greeted with open arms and it felt good.

Since fifteen, I'd visit home on Sundays and have a beer with my father. We'd watch the game.

It wasn't supposed to be that way, Abuelita made sure to remind me that family was not supposed to be so distant.

But physically being in the same room with my brother made me want to claw my skin off, it made me wanna hide outside of my body, watch his hate fester from an onlookers eyes.

I wondered if other people could see how much I disgusted him. Maybe that's why it was still so hard to forgive him seven years later.

So, I avoided family.

I moved out at fourteen, I moved in with the boys, I made shitty YouTube videos and got way too drunk. I was taking a shot before heading to school, fucking older men that bought me alcohol. I always fell in love and it always ended.

I dated way too old, and everyone knew. Brandon often judged, often called those men out for being over 25 and fucking on a kid, cause that was what I was... a kid. Lanny tried to keep it in.

My first boyfriend was a guy I met through YouTube, Nic Morelli, he was a twenty-two year old lifestyle blogger based out of Ann Arbor, I was sixteen. We hooked up the first time we met and something that I'd later fall into a cycle of... I fell in love. I moved in with him, doing so for a year, until I realized he was also dating a girl his age in Detroit.

When I was seventeen, something was taken from me, something I couldn't really identify but I felt so... lost without it and I couldn't get back. And it had been four years now, almost five. Almost five long years of doing what made me happy, so why was I still so fucking empty?

Lonely had made itself at home in me, maybe I never really coped with that. I didn't know but all I knew was I couldn't sleep when I didn't drink.

I'd get nauseous, I'd be irritable, I didn't want to film. I didn't want to do anything.

When I was seventeen, I'd tried the steps, especially when Brandon told me that he couldn't let me stay at his parents' house if I continued to act the way I was acting.

It was three months after and Lanny still wouldn't stop looking at me that same way. He told me that they were just worried but I saw how quickly they were becoming tired of me. He was blaming himself.

I got it. And I packed my bags, I went to stay home for a while, my mom welcoming me with open arms.

My dad offered a beer.

-

The first time my drinking had really gotten out of control was the last time I'd went to stay with my parents. 2013, Brandon and Lanny Ross' house didn't feel like home after what happened, I'd needed a break from it all and I couldn't cope.

I didn't realize that I couldn't cope on my own until I was missing classes and waking up at 2 pm everyday. That stayed constant for about a month, flashes of that night kept me awake, a consistent sickness in my throat.

So I buried it with rum, with day drinking and false happiness. It was the beginning of a cycle that would persist for months after, an emptiness inside and the black hole would just get wider and wider.

And deeper, I couldn't get back what was stolen from me and it tore me to pieces. I couldn't look at the world the same after, couldn't think of myself as, well, me. Everything was called into question and I'd regretted ever touching another man.

I regretted everything about it, I regretted drinking so much and the fact that I couldn't stop only threw me further.

Maybe I held resentment for Brandon, for his aid in realizing who I was. Maybe, at one point, I resented him for not being there when it counted.

And it was irrational, and it was selfish, so I hid it.

I took it out on Milo when he resurfaced a week after I'd moved my things back home.

It was always something so unspoken, everything really was, we never really talked. We hid our own pain, I didn't mention that I knew this seat was still filled when I was gone.

From the moment Milo had told me that he'd kill me.

-

"I-I knew I needed help." A pale woman scratched over her wrists, solemnly as she stood behind a podium. The walls were a sad gray, painted over some brick, posters pasted everywhere. We sat in those shitty metal chairs and everything was always so fucking somber.

And I was sober.

The taste of tequila still lingered on my tongue, burned when I swallowed back a lump in my throat. I watched a frail white woman talk about her problems.

She was a returning addict, it was obvious in the bags under her eyes, the baggy way she dressed. They said it would get easier when you were better but even sober you never stopped craving. You still looked like an addict, you still had the same tendencies and it never left. It got easier but it never got better.

That was something I didn't want to accept.

Cause when I was done, I was done. When I told myself to stop, I would, I would throw all my bottles out and work the steps and I would keep myself together.

I knew how to keep myself together.

Even when life felt like it was crumbling at the sides. My foundation was there.

And I was sitting in AA cause I could feel my steadiness chipping away, the chair was stiff under me, my body fighting to sit up straight. It was the same sluggishness when I didn't drink for a few days, the recovery time it always took.

My breathe was heavy in my throat, I closed my eyes.

And I bit my tongue.

This was the last thing my mother needed to see. She didn't need another repeat of 2013's Día de los Muertos, if she knew that was where I was heading, she would insist that it would probably kill her.

Drunk and falling all over myself, picking a fight with Milo and losing in front of everyone. My mother sobbed into empty air, just wanting peace for once.

My family wouldn't let it go, every function it was questioning about that night and why I didn't come around much. Everyone knew it wasn't just a few drinks with me.

It was embarrassing.

And the woman was still standing at the front, how much courage that actually took... her voice was gritty and scattered and so were her thoughts but she was putting it out there. She was talking about pain and allowing it to heal. I envied it.

I knew I needed help.

"But I didn't want to ask for it, you know, you never do... especially not from your kids." She was blinking back tears, I wondered if my father had ever been to AA. "B-but it was-it was when Tiff kicked me out."

I tried not to think of how much I saw the same thing in my father. We didn't speak of it much, he didn't have the heart. He'd sat me down that night, sticky air and a stern look on his face, Patron dripped through his pores, eyes glassy and I still saw so much of myself in him.

November first, we stared out onto the ocean in Puerto Morelos, bruises on my face a chipped tooth and a beer in hand, he told me that he too had felt terrible pain.

I didn't tell him how bad that pain had gotten. He didn't elaborate on his, we never spoke of it again. 

"And Tiff, she's a-a smart girl. She's nothing like me. She-she goes to school, she's a good mom. S-she came home to me passed out drunk with her 2-year old in the crib."

Brandon had found me with his dad's gun two months before and my father and I didn't speak of it. I didn't tell him, I didn't cry.

Instead, I bottled that pain and I dealt with it on my own. And I went to meetings and I got my shit together and it barely hurt. It didn't hurt, not even a little.

"Would anyone like a newcomer's chip?"

-
"You okay?" Lanny's smile was pretty much the brightest thing in all of the tri-state area. I was sure he was the most beautiful thing that I'd ever seen.

Carmel, tanned skin. Gold from the sun, a deep maroon shirt, a blinding smile with a playboy bunny tooth gem. We just started making money.

It was the biggest we'd ever been and maybe the molly was what blurred the night or maybe it was the shots.

Maybe it was all my bad decisions catching up but I wasn't on cloud 9 with everyone else.

Two days ago I was getting home from Europe, to my boyfriend fucking some girl in our bed, tucking her into my t-shirt.

Telling me he loved me but he missed tits.

I felt like a hypocrite.

A whore who was letting a complete stranger degrade me in Spain three days prior.

I let him cheat before, something about it being a girl hit me harder and when Rilee had called out my heterophobia in jest, it turned into an aggressive 20 minute car ride to the club after escaping to Connecticut of all places.

That should've been the cue that the night wouldn't end well.

Everyone was off and Landon seemed to be the only constant. I thought of destroying my relationship with Brandon... thought of fucking his brother.

Thought of starting a fight,
"Yeah. That guy was just being really handsy."

"Good handsy or bad handsy?" Landon laughed, head rolling back, eyes glassy and glued to strobe lights. I gestured to a man at the bar and didn't really care if he'd seen the right one. "Oh, he's cute, I guess... from the back."

And Landon was so cute bouncing on his toes, he bit the straw in his margarita. "M-maybe it'll get your mind off of it, yeah?"

"I shouldn't even be going out."

"Why?" You know why. "Nic was an asshole, okay? Forget about 'im. He didn't deserve you."

"... Go get laid."

"I..." I thought about it, the part of me that was way more interested in Lanny was far more substantial and the desperation of fucking a complete stranger because I was hurt.

Especially one that kept asking if I was underage like-like he wanted me to be. "I'm good."

My feet were moving before I registered, I immediately fell into a man beside me, he righted me and offered a tight smile.

I remember the distinct feeling that I would rather fuck this man than the man at the bar.

I remembered when Landon grabbed my arm, tight, he frowned and it reached his blow out irises.

"Where ya going?"

"I gotta piss." I offered a smile, I could feel tears welling again, I'd spent the last two nights drowning in tears. "Um, can you see if the guys are ready to go? I'm not feelin' well."

"Want me to come with?"

"I can pee alone, Lan."

-

"Hey." Isaiah was smiling over at me when I'd walked in the door. Only natural light illuminated the house, he had a thing with using less energy whenever possible and our power bill was often low because of it.

I was thankful for the natural light, moving on an empty stomach, I wanted to eat. I really wanted to eat, I knew I needed to but I just wasn't... hungry. I was tired though, extremely tired and the sight of Isaiah dumping some scrambled eggs on a plate did nothing but upset me.

On a regular day, I'd be so grateful for him. His post-hangover breakfast was one for the history books but I was sober.

I was sober and luckily Isaiah wasn't making mimosas.

He was a good roommate, overall, one of the best I'd ever had. He loved cooking, he cleaned up after himself and overall we clicked.

And he was sitting on the counter, stirring a cup of coffee, shirtless again with pajama pants hanging off his hips.

He never wore a shirt, a sight that was really fucking nice sometimes. His body was perfect, even with the scars he had on his chest, covered in ink. Isaiah had often mentioned his discomfort with them in bed, told me about the car crash he'd been in in the tenth grade and the friend that he lost.

I told him about the scar on my leg.

And it was kind of obvious that he'd become more confident with himself after I'd pressed my fingers against his, after I'd kissed them. He was wearing less clothes and I didn't complain.

Muscles flexed when he brought the coffee cup to his lips, eyes on mine. Something about his gaze made me feel like I was under a microscope, he always looked at me like the sun rose because of me and I hated it. I hated how obvious it was that he liked me.

"Where'd you head off to?"

Full lips parted and he leant back on the counter. I resisted the urge to stop at the liquor store directly after the meeting, I'd driven myself home, briskly made my way to our place.

And I was staring at the bar top, where he'd meticulously placed all our alcohol. I tried not to fall into temptation.

I recalled the scriptures my grandmother recited as law. Corinthians 10:13.

"I had a meeting with Mike."

Izzy nodded, maybe he knew that I didn't want to talk much. I tuned into the instrumental that was playing from his Google Home, it was some soft piano with crazy staccato. I wondered what he searched to find something so classical. He always did surprise me.

"I should get one of those."

"A manager?" And was Mike Truscott really a manager if he hadn't gotten my work out in months? Was it my fault that my art was lackluster?

"Yeah, I wanna move away from random commissions."

But he was good at them. He was so good at bringing absolutely every idea he had to life.

"You like those though." He mentioned it a lot when we talked about work that we had done. Isaiah seemed to really enjoy keeping himself open to everything. He photographed weddings, proms, headshots for aspiring actors, any gig he could get really.

His portfolio was extensive and very, very versatile. That was what magazines wanted to see.

"Yeah, it's fun," he shrugged, "but I'd like a steady income."

"I get that." I did. I understood it so well when his cash ran low after paying bills. We'd order in and I'd get the tab and I never realized how much that actually bugged him.

It bugged Jules too. But it bugged Izzy so obviously, he would make sure that when he had it, he'd treat me to dinner and make sure the waiter used his card.

Something about how chauvinistic that gesture was felt a little bit like those movies Abuelita and I watched. He was chivalrous, that wasn't something I was really used to.

And his curls were hanging over a pretty face, a plump pink bottom lip that he bit into.

He turned before I could speak again and then, I'm sure he probably expected me to have something else to say.

"I wanna do editorial work."

I never really thought about my work in commercialism. "Like fashion photography?" Something about it felt like an actual career move.

He had so much drive.

"Yeah." And he looked so cute when he smiled so slightly. "It has more creative freedom than the headshots I'm doing for fifty bucks." He shook just head, ringlets moving with the motion.

"Plus, I love working with models that love what they do, ya know? I wanna do something..." pushing his hands out in front of him, he plucked a word from the air, "substantial." And it felt so intentional, so intense.

Fuck.

"What about documentary photography? You'd be good at that."

His brows furrowed.

"It's too depressing."

And I got that. When he was editing his Flint series, he'd ended up donating hundreds to relief funds. Safe to say, we ate cheffed up ramen for two weeks until he got paid again.

He was turning to grab the coffee pot, pouring some into his mug and he gestured it to me.

"Coffee?"

Caffeine wasn't gonna sate the itch in the back of my throat, the slight quiver in my fingers. I was exhausted and I needed to fucking puke. "I think I'm gonna take a nap."

I couldn't talk to my mom about it.

I couldn't talk to my dad, I couldn't talk to Jules. I couldn't put my sobriety on anyone else's plate because Abuelita was dying and because Julian wanted to be in her place.

And God, I needed a drink.

The air shifted.

Isaiah was coughing slightly, nodding when he turned back and he didn't put his mug to his lips. I knew this would be a long conversation that I didn't prepare for.

"Can we talk?" My head hurt already.

I tried not to sigh too heavy, he didn't need to face the brunt of my irritation. He was shaking his head again, biting on his bottom lip and not giving me a choice in the matter.

I didn't like that.

"Don't answer that, we need to talk."

Isaiah wasn't all that good at picking the right timing nowadays or maybe I had been angry too long.

There was an urgency in his words, I wondered how long he was trying to figure out how to go about this. "...About?"

And what did we even have to talk about? Did he hate the switch to oat milk? Did he want to stop sleeping together, you never really knew with Izzy. He always built up a conversation instead of diving right in.

He looked nervous though, he was thumbing his spoon before placing his mug down. And he leant on the bar that I sat behind, we were so close then.

As if realizing the lack of personal space, he rested back on the soles of his feet, nestled in my socks.

This was much too intimate.

"Well you got jealous..." when have I ever been jealous of him? At my confusion, he elaborated, "with Rilee." I tried not to laugh.

I really did. I tried my best not to find that amusing but something about how he thought I was jealous that he was getting attention from my best friend when I spent half the night wasted with her tongue down my throat was fucking hilarious.

Like really, funny stuff. I masked a chuckle with a forced deadpan, it instantly falling back into a laugh.

"I wasn't jealous, Izzy."

I hated how he rolled his eyes then, like there wasn't a single possibility that someone wasn't attracted to him. I didn't want Izzy, that was clear and he needed to get it already.

"You weren't jealous?"

"No." And by now, I was getting annoyed.

"You didn't speak to me for two days." Because you took advantage of the fact that I was drunk and vulnerable.

I breathed out through my nose, knowing that it was the withdrawal that was pissing me off. It wasn't Isaiah's fault that he was so fucking dumb.

"This thing that we have, whatever it is." He was motioning between us, "I feel like there's tension here." I couldn't help it, I rolled my eyes.

"I don't want there to be tension, Paul."

"There's no tension." There wasn't. I wasn't angry at him. It was easy under the night light... infused with alcohol, hyper-sexuality from Molly, it was easy for him to feel entitled to my body especially when I'd given it to him so many times before.

I was easy.

I couldn't blame him, I shouldn't have drank so much.

"There's no problem here, promise..." I tried to shrug it off but the look in his eyes was still so concerned and I decided I hated that. "We're friends, Iz. I'm not jealous of you falling all over her."

"You're so jealous." And he was smiling, his expression was coy, it always was. He was biting at that lip again. "And you can't keep hiding that, Paul." He laughed, it devoid of humor, he was trying to seem unbothered but his Scorpio kept it on the surface. "You really think that we're just friends right now?" And I didn't know what to say to that.

"I don't know about you but I don't jump into bed with all my friends."

My heart dropped, that wasn't something I thought I'd hear from him.

He must've been able to read the look on my face cause he was shaking his head then. "Don't get offended." And I hated that,  "I didn't mean it like that."

Yes you did.

But Isaiah had his hands on my shoulders then, he was getting closer to me, eyes on mine. "Hey." His voice was soft and he bit down into his bottom lip. One hand slid its way up the nape of my neck, tucking his fingers into the coils there. I hated how relaxed he made me. "I'm not judging you."

He was massaging my scalp and I wanted to be in his arms. He was meeting my eyes again and my hands dangled by my sides, itching to grab at his shirt.

I wanted him to hold me.

"I'm just saying that the lines are a little blurry."

And they were. I realized then that I didn't move from where I was yet. With a sigh, I stepped back but his fingers laced through my belt loops and Izzy never let me hide.

"You wanna stop fucking? Fine."

He rolled brown eyes, head thrown back exasperatedly. "That's not what I want."

"What do you want?"

Smiling, he shrugged. He was tugging me closer, ringed fingers curling around my waist. "To take you out? On a real date, maybe? You know what I want." His thumbs were stroking the sides of my stomach.

He stroked my lower back.

"We live together, Paul, w-we spend so much time together, we—The way that you kiss me? Come on." Leaning closer, he brushed his nose against mine lightly.

"Listen to what I do to you," and he was drawing circles on my lower back, I tried to stifle my gasp, "you do that to me too. I can't breathe when you kiss me."

And my heart was beating fast, my breath hitching. I watched him lick his lips, soft smirk there. My hands were on his chest, hard muscle there and he rocked me to classical music, it felt like that closeness I'd been craving. "I hold you all night, I make you breakfast, you used to kiss me goodbye in the mornings... and I'm not supposed to like you?"

He was kissing the tip of my nose then, breathy chuckle through his words, "I'm not supposed to want anything more?"

He leant closer, lips grazing mine, he breathed softly then. And then he kissed me, it chaste. Slowly, he pulled away before soft lips tucked between mine again.

And he was kissing me again. I was holding my breath when he pulled away, tilting his head. God, the look in his eyes.

I tried to make my voice strong. Why did I always feel so fucking weak? "We can't." I'm not ready.

His voice was almost a whisper, deep and sexy. "You fuck me like you love me." And I could feel the way he said that in my fingertips, the hopefulness in his eyes, the nerves.

He didn't mean to say it and now that he did, I was pulling myself away. I was shutting down again, I could always feel it when my walls went back up. I hated that I let them down in the first place.

And now Izzy was claiming that I loved him and that couldn't be further from the truth and I was placing some distance between us, something I should've done months before.

"...Paul..."

"What do you want me to say?"

He looked so confused then, speechless almost. And he stammered.

"Can't we, at least... try?" He was furrowing thick brows, looking me in the eye and I'd never felt more uncomfortable. My throat was closing, fingers shaking, I remembered that feeling of being in his bed again.

Familiar shame crawled up my chest, I rubbed the back of my neck and I didn't wanna meet his eye. It felt like everything all over again, like hugging myself in therapy, like Brandon's parents footing the bill to make sure I didn't kill myself in their house.

"Izzy..."

"We're basically together, Paul."

No we're not. We're not together if it's not a mutual decision and I don't want to be with you. "You-you want s-s-something that I-I just don't... want."

And he was laughing, it breathy and hurt and I tried not to cry. Fuck, I cared too much about him.

"All the mixed signals?" He laughed, I could see the anger in his eyes and I knew it was directed at himself. "That's all you have to say?"

"Mixed signals?"

"Yeah, playing with my feelings like-like you know you don't wanna be with me so why? Th-that's really fucked up, Paul."

But all of this was my fault? Like I didn't tell him my intentions from the beginning. It was my fault he didn't know how to take a hint? That-that he didn't know that he wasn't supposed to touch me like he did or kiss me like he did when he knew how I would affect him?

Like he didn't know that he wasn't supposed to touch me?

"Fucked up? Like kissing on me when I'm drunk?"

"You kissed me, Paul." And I kissed him in the club, I remembered that. I didn't remember having sex with him. I didn't remember saying 'yes I would like to have sex with you.' "You made out with Rilee, is that my fault, too?"

"Rilee and I didn't sleep together."

The dumb look on his face only made me angrier. It came so quickly and it rose to the top, bubbling over, my chest was on fire. "You got me drunk and then touched me?" It was in disbelief. A part of me really couldn't believe it and I knew I was crying, I fucking hated crying.

"Don't say it like that."

"That's what happened."

"I never forced you to drink, Paul." But he looked nervous then and he was moving closer as if he wanted to touch me again. The way I flinched after only cemented him in place and Isaiah looked scared. "That-that sounds like I'm- like h-hurting you and I'm not. I would never do that. I would never force you to do anything that you didn't want to do."

"You didn't fuck me?" You didn't use the fact that I was fucked up to get what you wanted cause you knew I wouldn't give it to you if I was in the right frame of mind? You didn't touch me when I wasn't able to say no?

And I never blacked out but the night was coming back in waves and all I could remember was the feeling of Isaiah on top of me. He was sloppily kissing down my spine and drunkenly opening me up and fire followed wherever he touched.

"I told you that I don't... I have limits and you-you didn't respect them."

His eyes were still so wide, so clear and glassy. I could see the exact moment he realized what I was talking about... and in that moment, he maintained so much eye contact it scared me.

And he was so serious then, he opened his mouth before closing it. He didn't seem to know how to respond so he took a second.

All he could come up with was: "You came to my room and asked me to fuck you."

"I was drunk."

"I know. So was I." There wasn't any aggression behind it. He didn't try and touch me. "We were drunk when we got home, you went to bed, Rilee and I kept drinking." 

There was a shakiness to his voice then, as if he wasn't sure if he were allowed to say it. "You woke up and came to my room and asked me to hold you. And you kissed me then you-you asked me to fuck you."

When he said it, I remembered it. I remembered straddling him, I remembered kissing him. It was my fault, it was always my fucking fault.

"I-I... I..." and he didn't know what else to say but he kept going. He was sincere with another apology. "I'm sorry, I should've been more present. And I should've stopped it."

It was my fault. "But you don't make it easy, Paul."

And I was crying. I hated that I could feel my throat closing, tears brimming my eyes, and it was never this serious to begin with and now that I brought it up and I looked like the issue. "Easy to know where the line is," he clarified, "not-not like that."

Because we did often have sex and it was always consensual except the one time it wasn't. And I didn't expect to feel this way about Isaiah, that I could think he could do... it.

Especially when everytime someone actually could, actually did, I didn't see it.

I'd fucked a 30 year old man at 16. A man with a mortgage and a wife. And I thought it was okay because it was normal. I'd dated a 27 year old man months before that, one that had a 9-5 and a degree in marketing, he'd pick me up after school to smoke weed in his apartment. We'd spend days on end together before arguing about something stupid and then ignore each other for weeks.

I didn't know what love was until I was in a normal relationship and it was great even if I was never his only one. And Nicolas cheated on me for the entire length of our relationship but he treated me well.

I didn't realize how fucked my teenage years were until therapy. But now Isaiah's face was crumbling and he was looking at me in that same way he did when classes were too stressful.

And I could see how much what I said caught him off guard.

"I just, I wouldn't be kissing you while you were drunk... if you weren't always drunk, Paul." And he didn't say it judgmentally. Everything with Izzy was straightforward. "I-I'm not saying how you feel isn't valid. I... I'm not trying to do that. And I'm so sorry that I made you feel this way."

I hated how hard it was to remember that I had never really coped. And I didn't wanna start now.

I tried to find my voice then, knowing that this conversation would unearth things that I liked to keep buried. I swallowed the lump in my throat, it raw and my head was pounding, I felt so fucking lightheaded.

And I felt sick.

Isaiah had a look on his face and I knew what it meant. He was asking if someone had done that to me before.

No trial has come to you but what is human. God is faithful and will not let you be tried beyond your strength; but with the trial he will also provide a way out, so that you may be able to bear it.

I sucked in a breath and nodded, seconds later retreating to my room. We didn't speak of it again.

A/N:
I just got over having Covid so here's a gift for you and I. I refused to speak on tomorrow but please take care of yourselves, loves, and remind a loved one that you're there.

Updated: Tues. November 3rd

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