adamprrsh: “This isn’t love,” you tell him. “I loved you, once. Sometimes I

adamprrsh:

“This isn’t love,” you tell him. “I loved you, once. Sometimes I think I still do.” You want to say more but you don’t know what would make this better, if anything could. You turn away from him and you look out the window. The clouds are gathering and turning grey, blotting out the sun.

“Good.” He nods. “That’s good.” His fingers brush against the side of your palm and you want more, you want to cover his hand with yours and twine your fingers together. You want to never let go. You don’t move. “I think I loved you, too.”

(x)