Beginning of the end

This is a short story written in second person narrative.

It'll start as anything else.  You'll be going through the motions of life when you come upon him.  Maybe he'll be blue eyed with blonde hair.  Maybe he'll be brunette and brown eyed.  Either way, you'll meet him in the most inconspicuous place.  First you'll notice his looks.  You always notice the looks.  He may be pleasing to the eye but you swear you're not looking for a relationship.  Then he'll say something.  Maybe it'll be funny.  Maybe it'll be a random reference nobody would understand but a geek like you.  Maybe it'll be too smart for you, something you'll have in your head all day until you look it up when you get home. 

 

He'll charm his way into your life.  Soon you'll be calling him a friend but resisting his romantic advances.  Everytime he asks you out you'll turn him down.  You always turn them down.  Then one day something will make you take notice.  Maybe you'll see someone flirting with him.  Maybe you'll overhear him talking about some girl or another who's not you.  Maybe you'll watch something or hear something on the radio that makes you think of him.  Either way you'll ask him out.  Of course he'll say yes. 

 

It'll take a while before you fully trust him.  Trust never did come easy to you.  You can't even trust friends, having been back stabbed too many times.  You'll crack the door open - give him a peek into your true self.  You'll never open it up too much. 

 

That'll be the beginning of the end. 

 

He'll ask questions and expect answers you just aren't ready to give.  Maybe they'll be about your invisible father.  Maybe they'll be about witnessing something traumatic as a child.  Maybe it'll be about your aunt who died and how you've never liked cars since then.  Soon enough he'll ask too many questions and that cracked door will slam shut.  You pull away, because you always pull away.  You won't even realize that you are doing it at first. 

 

Then it'll become apparent to both of you.  You'll be too proud to ask for forgiveness.  So you'll let him walk.  They always ask, right before they leave, if it ever meant anything.  You never respond.  Not because you don't know.  For a while it was good.  It's always good.  But that fades.  You let him leave, never trying to stop him.  You figure he deserves better anyways.  You always do. 

 

You're unchanging.  Maybe one day you'll change, become better.  Until then, you'll live with the cycle.  After all, nobody can hurt you if you don't let them. 

Author's Note

This was my first attempt at writting a second person narrative.