Everything around you was like paper and cotton, but not soft at all, just ugly and rough, squeaking between your fingers and splitting into fluff at every touch, as if written in many layers of dried paint.

There was a mess of scattered matches you had dropped, one cigarette that had been extinguished on the floor, and a scratch on your cheek that throbbed. It was like another reminder of how immature you were compared to him—neither careful in your feelings nor in your fighting. Because love had been here a long time ago, bubbling like a bright flame—if all the books of the world were meant to burn in one place, it would be your heart. But Leon was determined that it was destined to fade just like the heat of your match, leaving only ash and memories of warm color to be replaced only by cold.

"You know where this will lead the both of us." Leon spoke and spoke, throwing words at you like knives where your head and heart were the target, and you only took a step toward him to make it easier to take aim.

You knew that his feelings were there, too, even though he didn't want to admit it—as if you had to push just a little, convince him how serious you were so that he would finally break down and give in to you. But his rejections still hurt every time, even though it was the first time he voiced his real doubts to you instead of mere excuses.