S

He motioned me to follow him through the open door. We walked outside inside the sunlight, I was two steps behind him.
“Hey!” He pulled my chin up to make me look at him, something I had trying very carefully to avoid doing.
“HEY!” He said, again.

“Yeah?” I was so nervous.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I get jealous and insecure and I’m working on it.”

I snuggled into his arms. “It’s okay!”

“And I’m sorry I’m such an a*****e and that I fucked everything up and I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry. Like I said, I wish I could go back to November and start over. You didn’t deserve this.” He was being uncharacteristically sincere and open and as a result, I was feeling uncharacteristically bashful and shy.
“It’s okay!” I repeated. And then I said it: “I just get frustrated by you because you can be very confusing.”

“I...uh...” I stumbled on my words I had been carefully rehearsing and then they all came tumbling out: “You said you don’t want anything serious but you get upset about stuff like I’m your girlfriend. But I’m NOT your girlfriend.”
I looked up at him, the wind blowing my hair into my eyes and blocking the view of my face, which I hoped didn’t reveal the intensity of the emotion behind my words.
“Do you WANNA be my girlfriend?” He asked.
My heart leapt in my chest. YES, yes, more than anything I silently screamed. I thought I had never felt more happy in my life.

I wish I could capture him. Write it all down. Being with him, what he’s like. The way he looks at me with those big brown eyes. I worry that he’s bored of me, that he’s talking to other girls. Truthfully, he probably is. I just don’t wanna know. I wanna live in my blissful world where we cuddle on the couch watching friends and I kiss his arm (but not too many times in a row, because I don’t wanna seem weird) and he plays with my hair. I worry that he’s seen my stretch marks and my cellulite and he’s realized I’m not as hot as he thought I was. I worry that the monotony of my presence will bore him.
Last night I had to force him to cuddle me. I came upstairs and he was sound asleep. I shook his arm twice, trying to indicate to him to put it around me. Finally, I spoke up. “Hey, cuddle me for like, two minutes.”
He grunted and rolled over, pulling me close. I tugged at his arm to make him hold me tighter. Doesn’t he realize that I need this? I need him to hold me.
I woke up choking in the middle of the night. I think it scared him. “Are you okay? Are you okay?” He kept asking, long after I’d rolled over, trying to get more sleep. In the morning he got up early and went downstairs. He came up later to check on me. “I had horrible dreams.” I told him. I had woken up twice covered in sweat. The first time I had felt a insane urge to jump out of bed, motivated by an inexplicable belief I had to get out of there.
“I was going to see if you wanted to go to Costco with me.”
I am surprised. I thought he’d be tired of my presence by this point and expect me to go home.
“Alright.”
He is getting dressed. “Do you need a hair dryer?” He is surprisingly thoughtful.
Last night he kissed my forehead and I couldn’t help but think of the meme I saw on Instagram that said if a guy kisses your forehead, he really likes you. I think I enjoy lying to myself, feeling that temporary sense of reassurance that comes with the falsehoods I tell myself.
I just want to be with him. My anxiety goes away. I tell him everything. Work drama. Gossip about my friends. He is so tall and huggable and I have to force myself not to come up and put my arms around him too often.