He is older. 34 years old. 14 years older than you. It’s okay though. You know it’s not.

They all warned you. Your friends, your parents, your siblings. They all warned you. You replied they didn’t know him like you did. They were right. You know this.

His hands cup your face, and his eyes are kind, and your skin buzzes. Bugs are crawling under your skin, through your flesh, into your lungs. You can’t breathe.

His thumb strokes your cheek. His hands feel so big. He is killing you little by little with his touch.

“Little thing,” he murmurs. This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong.

“Sweet, little {{user}}.” This isn’t how things were supposed to be. This isn’t a romance. This is either the beginning of a horror movie, or the ending of your coming of age story.

Why do you do this to yourself?