“They’re going to destroy the English language,” he says, his voice careful, quiet. The boy who does not remember me I used to know. I know him I know him I know him I know him I’ve been lying to myself, determined to deny the impossible. I’m holding my breath and my eyes are wide, locked, caught in the intensity of his gaze. Every muscle every movement tightens, every vertebra in my spinal column is a block of ice. There are less than 3 inches between us and I can’t move because my body only knows how to freeze. I turn to meet his eyes and regret it immediately. I close the book and roll it into a little ball. He glances at the little notebook tucked in my hand, at the broken pen clutched in my fist. My bones are begging for something I cannot allow. Something in my joints aches with an acute yearning, a desperate need I’ve never been able to fulfill. His body heat does more for me than the blanket ever will. His shoulders are so close too close never close enough. He sits down next to me and leans against the wall. “Hey-” He grabs the blanket off my bed and crouches next to me, wasting no time wrapping the thin cloth around my thinner shoulders.
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