lorin7
His hand moved to my face, brushing away a lock of hair.
It was a loving, intimate gesture and I had to look away from his face.
I couldn't do this. Not now.
He looked at me; those big, sad eyes screaming for forgiveness, giving me an apology he couldn't possibly put into words.
Because after what he did-no, he couldn't.
I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to him ever again, and I told him so. Then I ran home, where maybe I could blanket my mind once again.
The underdog: or was he?
Was he really an underdog, was the question. Did he really lose? It made sense, with that scrawny stick figure he had, but she'd seen him, too-seen him run miles, beat up a bully four times his size on the street to protect his sister.
Was it an act? Why?
there wasn't anywhere else to go.
The click of heels against the floor usually wasn't menacing, I mean, come on. Who'd be scared of heels?
I would.
In today's world, everyone.
It wasn't even debatable: you heard it, and you ran.
writing since 2014 · 5 entries · 4 days shown up
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tapranagainstfloorcornermomentheelsunderdogfacefootstepstappedquietlypeekedheartracingready