Shadow Me Gönderileri
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We settle into a comfortable silence, the two of us still holding on, and I’m thinking about how important this relationship is to me— how important Juliette is to me.
I still don’t think I understand Warner, but it’s obvious that something about her lights fire in him. He looks alive when she’s in his arms. Human like I’ve never seen him before.
Like he’s in love.
And not only in love, but beyond salvation.
Juliette says one thing to him and Warner turns into an idiot. He’s staring at her, too dumb to speak, and she’s flushed, looking all hot and bothered just because he’s looking at her.
“Damn princess,” I say softly. “Is that really you?”
She looks at me for only a second, but it feels like she looks through me, and something about the cold, poisonous expression in her eyes breaks my heart like nothing else.
“You’re practically emanating lovelorn agony.”
I can picture it with terrifying clarity— the fantasy of having her in my arms, her eyes dark and heavy with desire. I can imagine her under me, her fingers digging into my shoulder blades as she screams—
“Shit,” I said softly. “I think I might be in love with you.”
Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even.
And I’ve got no one to share it with.
Everyone thinks I’m a joke.
I’m so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look, everyone seems to have someone.
Everyone but me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I get it.”
He looks up. Meets my eyes. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I do.”
“I don’t think you do, actually. In fact, I hope you don’t. I wouldn’t want you to know how I feel right now: I wouldn’t wish that for you.”
I’ve got my own problems, my own burdens, my own pain and frustration, and besides, no one ever asks me about my day. No one ever follows up with me, no one bothers to peer beneath the surface of my smile. So why should I care?
I shouldn’t.
Everyone thinks I’m not supposed to give a shit—that I shouldn’t—but I do. I always do.
And I give a shit about this asshole, too.
“Are you out of your mind?”
And when he says, without a hint of irony—
“No more than usual.”
—it’s crystal clear to me that this dude is not okay.
“Kishimoto, if I considered other people’s mediocre standards a sufficient metric by which to measure my own accomplishments, I’d never have amounted to anything.”