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The art of patience

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She’s here, standing right in front of you, patiently waiting for a response, her blue eyes tearing up, just like they did at Tom’s funeral.

Has it really been a year?

And when was Patty Hewes the vulnerable one? You can’t recall. The only memories you have are of her humiliating you, ignoring you, letting you rot in your own confusing feelings. These feelings of hatred that slowly turned into love.

Oh, no, wait. There was that time when she told you she needed you in her life and her lips almost touched yours. And another one when she called you at 2 a.m., half-conscious, and you rushed to her apartment, only to find her sitting on the polished wooden floor, her face buried in her hands, her body shaking from the sobs. The place reeked of bourbon, you noticed. You were careful not to step on the broken glasses as you lifted her and took her upstairs. You also tried not to pay attention to the sting in your eyes, as she repeatedly mumbled “I’m sorry for everything” before falling asleep in your arms.

You wanna know how it feels to kiss her, to hold her – to actually hold her, to trace her face with your fingers while her breath is burning them, to wake up by her side, to watch her getting ready in the morning, to lie on her chest and listen to her heartbeat, to look at her without being afraid of giving yourself away.

You wanna know how it feels to be completely hers.

So you wait. For one, two, three, four years. Until you don’t have to wait anymore.

Because you finally get to know how it feels.