““You still love him,” he says, half question, half demand.
“Of course I don’t.” She replies.
But then part of her wonders whose arms she’d run into if she still had the choice.
“You still think of him,” he whispers, when she’s turned off the lights and lies there trying not to give her thoughts away.
“Go to sleep,” she says.
But when her eyes are closed and she drifts between consciousness, she swears it’s his voice she hears and his fingers tracing the rise and fall of her ribs.
“Do you miss him?” He asks.
“No.” And it’s not a lie, not really.
But part of her still remembers how he made her smile and how she buried her 2am laughter into his chest. Part of her still questions the possibility of seeing him again, and she thinks, maybe just once, for old time’s sake.
“Would you go back?” He finally asks.
And she can’t help herself.
“Yes.” She says, “yes.””
some broken heart fool.
