There is a certain fear in being around him when he’s upset. Or angry, or mournful, whatever it is. It’s unsettling because I have no clue how to read him. I can read true happiness, or the sarcastic, bitter smiles that don’t reach his face. But besides that, the book closes. I have no clue how to respond, if I should comfort or draw away. I feel like if I were to touch him that would be a sin in itself, violating some sacred place.

I could ask, but that wouldn't work. I can try and joke to get the depth of the mood, but usually, there’s no reply. So I ramble until I feel tears and pain in my throat and I stop trying. I wish I could just skip to the reserved, not-trying part, but I can't. It’s a part of me.

And God, do I wish I can respond properly but I feel cruel and messy and I don’t know how to interact without sarcasm and anger. In front of other people, I start to curdle, boil, spill over myself. Multiple versions of me battle over how to act and it ends up being hell. I hate it. I hate him and everything he represents. I hate craving him yet getting nothing. I’m chewing on the bone, unable to reach the marrow.

I can ignore him. But it’s hard. The moment I know he isn't looking my eyes are pulled like magnets and here I go again, tracing the lines and curves and texture of everything I want yet never can have. Eyelashes against cheeks like butterfly wings, mouth twisted into some pensive emotion, or puckered and left in a state of angst. He swallows and it’s a ripple of reaction, the closing of eyes, the pursing of lips, the bob of his adam’s apple.

Even worse is the moments he catches me staring, or maybe just chooses then to look. His eyes are lidded and dark, a strange look halfway between exhaustion and affection, and I either balk and throw myself towards the chalkboard, or struggle to maintain his look. Then, curse him, he’ll look away for a second and sweep back up to see if I left and what am I supposed to do?? I can’t just stare at him. So I flush and stare out the window instead and wait for the next moment I can indulge.

However, even with that wretched awkwardness comes the minutes at my locker, spent in silence or my rambling. He leans against the empty lockers like it hurts to hold his own weight, and either looks at nothing or at me as I struggle to keep myself reined in. Hell on earth when I run out of things to do and stand there, wringing my hands, despondent. I can’t talk to him. I can’t look at him without wanting to grab his stupid, stupid face and it’s hell. I loathe it.

Worse, oh, how worse, is that fraction of moment where he goes to hug me and his face leans in like a kiss and I feel struck and empty and I’m pulling away and storming down the hallway like a self-contained hurricane. And this happens every pathetic day. I simultaneously want him to kiss me and leave.

If he were to kiss me, my hurricane would spill over and I’d rip the seams until nothing was left but a rag doll. If he were to leave, I’d feel nothing at all. I’d probably go home and cry. And hate him all the more.