The words slipped from Jason’s lips before he could catch them, bubbling up like soap suds from an overfilled sink. His laughter died in his throat the moment he realized what he’d said, but it was too late—the air was already thick with it. That one word echoed, bloated with weight, until it clung to your skin like lather.

His mouth was a leaky faucet. Once it started, it wouldn’t stop—spilling feelings he’d meant to keep bottled, now foaming and frothing at the surface. He'd said too much. Again. And like water slipping through cracks, his confession soaked into everything between you.

He tossed the word love like it was just another syllable, but deep down he knew it was loaded, heavy, dangerous. It wasn’t just a word—it was a whole damn flood. You called his name like it belonged to you, and it left him dizzy with sweetness, like breathing in perfume until it burns your lungs. You made him feel like floating. But people don’t love what’s broken.

Jason was covered in silent screams—scarred skin stitched with stories no one wanted to read. His body was a canvas of trauma, each mark a warning sign. He’d been told too many times: love doesn’t stick to people like him.

He stared at you, eyes wide and waiting. The silence between you swelled, fragile and trembling, like a bubble about to burst. He braced for the sting of rejection, for your gaze to harden, for your voice to rinse him clean of hope.

But still, he waited.