155. A single teas splashed on my shoe, but he wasn't there to see it. So it was okay.

He runs his fingers through his tangled hair; face a mask of fury, layers and layers of hate and hurt. I hardly dare look into his eyes, the dark vehemence embedded too deep into my mind, his wrath over the power to control my body.

I stood still, not sure whether I should take his hands in mine, or shrink away from his intense aura. He watched me, until his hate slowly seeped away, like steam rising and disappearing in mid air. I spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

This time, I chanced upon his eyes, but hatred no longer gripped his features. It was soft, sadness and full of regret. There wasn’t a threat in his look, just a longing desire to start over, swirling deeper and deeper into a part of him which I couldn’t understand, a part where I couldn’t even begin to imagine with.

Reprisal, retaliation, retribution, vengeance; they burnt holes into my back, piercing sharp sticks through my body, flaring up my temper now, when he had cooled down. Unable to contain my emotions, the wild fury, happiness, incontrollable aches in my chest, I let out a loud sob.

My body fell wilted and dead into him, and soon my shoulders were hugged by strong hands, and my head lolled by his chest, feeling the heartbeat rocketing itself, thumping against my temples, a rhythm, the purest sound of life.

“I just miss you.”

He caught me off guard, his voice a raspy whisper, so soft I thought I was imagining his words. I waited, to see if he’d say more. The tears slid down my cheek and dampen a dark patch on his shirt. It was either he was too distracted, or he didn’t care.

“Miss those times…” he mumbles nonchalantly, his words barely audible.

He hugged me closer to his chest, and I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, peeling off and falling onto me. It engulfed me in the sweet scent of him, the molten hot searing across, telling me again and again why I couldn’t let him go, why there was a strong sense of attachment to him.

He walked, and carried me like I weighed nothing, a crumpled doll in his hands; to caress or to strangle, to love or to murder, to hug or to constrict. My breath was quiet, the rise and fall of our chests timed to near perfection, just another way to be closer to him, to feel closer to him.

He set me down on the bed, my head resting on his arm, his other running over my waist. He pulls me closer to him, little effort but the impact of his body so close to me speeded up my heartbeats. As if he sensed it too, his grip on me relaxed, but his hot breath stuck to my skin, unwilling to let go. Each sigh lingered a moment too long to be one of contentment.

“Just wish we could go back.”

“What’s so wrong about now?”

“It’s not the same anymore.”

A pang in my chest, in my mind I’m cringing away from his body, fighting the heavy tears than threaten to come again. It wasn’t me who didn’t want it back. It was him. He couldn’t go through with this, couldn’t face the problems, couldn’t cope with heartaches and hurt. He was incapable to feel what I’m going through. But I knew he was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered in my ear.

I took his hand, and as gently as I could, I moved it away. My hair brushed his skin lightly, and that was the last time I ever touched him. He got up, but he never followed me. It was pitch black, and all the better if he couldn’t see my tears glinting in the light.

I heard no movement as I stopped. I turned my head to look behind my shoulder. I could feel his eyes searching for me as though he was blind. I parted my lips and whispered.

“I’m sorry too.”