Prompted by: Bree Verity
“You dream of such awful things, Tom.”
I don’t know why I said it. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to.
We don’t talk about these things.
“Yeah, I do,” he murmurs huskily, his hand closing over mine. “But I also dream of you.”
He’s not supposed to reply. This isn’t how we work.
We never talk about these things.
Because it’s dangerous, volatile, explosive territory. Because the stakes are too high and we can’t afford to lose again. Because we can’t possibly survive another game of Russian roulette. Because…
I haven’t grown up at all.
I thought I had. I really did. I mean, it’s been over a decade, right? And I’m definitely not the same girl he left behind. When he shattered my heart that night? I didn’t roll over and die. I went on. I duct-taped the wretched thing back together and went on. Pursued my goals. Made something of myself. Became the person I’d always wanted to be.
And after he came back, we didn’t pick up where we left off. We couldn’t. It would’ve destroyed us both to even try.
You can’t build tomorrow with yesterday’s pain.
So instead, we chose to ignore the past. Focus on the present. Look toward the future.
But then he goes and says something like that and I just…I just…
I just haven’t grown up at all.
I’m still starry-eyed. I’m still unicorns and rainbows and happily-ever-afters. I’m still hopelessly in love.
And I’m still the heartbroken teenager he abandoned a lifetime ago.
His fingers interlace with mine. Tentatively. As if he can sense my fragility. As if he knows I’m ready to break at any moment.
“Where did you go just now?”
A mixture of confusion and concern flood his baby blues.
There’s pain too.
I swallow the tears that have no business being there anyway and flash him the brightest smile I can muster. “To take a baseball bat to a time machine.”
“You did what with the what?” he laughs, looking perfectly at ease again.
Looking exactly the way I always want him to look.
“I love you, Tom.”
What’s the prompt for next week, guys?
Make suggestions below. 7 words or less.