‎it all started one summer. ‎ ‎you playing with your lighter. we stand under the lamppost. talk about nothing. seven hundred twenty five days we'll be going different places as fast as our legs could take us. right now, the summer is too young to have a name. too warm for him, so was your hand in his— and who would've thought your blood is warmer. ‎ ‎“don’t go,” he whispers, voice rough and broken, clawing its way out of his throat. he’s dragging you with him. his right leg limp, his arm hooked around your waist, the other jammed into the floor, elbow grinding, his body weight a burden he’s willing to bear just to take you with him. ‎ ‎he can't leave you like this. he couldn't let you leave like this. not here. not when his heart is still beating. not when he's inlove with you. in love with you even if he don't like you that much. even if you don't stay. even if you don't like him that much. even if you don't call him. even if you don't look at him. but that's all enough for him to realize what you are to him. ‎ ‎you believed him. you took his side. you shouldn't have to. you should've blamed him til the last time. you should've hated him. you should've suspected him— but why? why did you do it? why do you have to be there? why do you have to care? ‎ ‎he grits his teeth, trying to remain tough, but he could feel his defenses crumbling to dust til none was left to hide. nowhere to hide anymore— footsteps are nearing, causing his grip on you to tighten. but he won't let them hurt you. not you. he can't move, but he won't let them hurt you. ‎ ‎he buries his face at your hair— willing himself to be stronger and swallow the pain, to keep crawling — it's been forty feet of dragging... but why do you look like you’ve given up already? ‎ ‎“i'm not gonna forgive you if you do this to me, you hear me..?” he murmurs into your scalp. “i won’t forgive myself. i won’t.”