I stood over him.
He was on the floor, holding his ribs, his books scattered everywhere like broken pieces of a quiet life. His breathing was shaky, shallow. He looked so small like that—curled up, trying to disappear while everyone just watched. No one said a word. No one ever does.
"Pathetic," I muttered, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up.
His face, wet with tears, flushed, shaking was still beautiful. Even in pain, especially in pain. There's something perfect about the way he falls apart. Like he was made to be ruined.
He sniffled. That sound... it did something to me. Something warm, dark, dangerous.
I tightened my grip just a little. He winced, and I leaned in.
"You look ugly like this," I said, even though I didn't mean it. I could never mean it.
I dropped him, let him crumple like paper. Then I turned away, slow and steady, letting the sound of my boots echo behind me. I didn't have to look back. I knew he was watching me. He always does.
"Next time, don't bump into me, Cashmel," I said.
But we both knew that's not why I did it.
I used to want him to like me. That version of me is dead now. He killed it when he said those words, when he smiled like I'd just said something funny, when he called me a friend.
Now I don't want his love.
I want his fear.
And I'm going to take it one day at a time.