The floor was clean. It's white tile, cold white tile of the spacious bathroom. I lay there, unable to stop my thoughts.

It feels like instinct with him. I hate it. Like, I look forward to seeing him all day. It's disgusting. I am disgusted by myself.

Disgusted by how my heart races a little faster when I get a notification from him, disgusted by how much I care about him, disgusted that I don't hate him as much as I should.

And most of all. I'm disgusted that I so hopelessly want to be his friend.

I don't want him to leave again.

This is self sabotage because you're scared he's going to leave.

Fuck.

***

"I'm definitely not happy not even close to it, but for the first time, this is the farthest I am from being sad." He said to be so hopeless.

I turn to him and slowly stroke the side of his cheek with my thumb, softly and gently, opposite to what he's probably used to.

I wanted to show him that not all physical touch is bad or abusive. And it doesn't always have to be sexual.

He's physically melting to my touch.

I want him to feel the impact of gentle touches, soft, caring, I want him to know what it feels like to be cared about.

I look up into his eyes only to find him staring at my face, puzzled, trying to figure out what my aim is.

I pause, looking into his eyes intently, making sure he's aware and listening.

"I'm so proud of you." I genuinely say, not having a hint of fake ness, truly meaning it.

Because I do, and I don't think he hears it as often as he should be.