â You died that day. â slam DUNKS this into ur inbox
âStiles,â his name left her mouth hesitantly, the sound of it wracked with grief and guilt. Allison could see the boy stood in front of her was the same boy she met alongside Scott years ago, ( it felt like a lifetime ago, now ) she knew it by the pale skin, the contrasting moles and freckles, even in the way he still wasnât sure how to carry himself, in the static energy that had always coursed through him.
He was older, though. Not just in age, it was in the way his expression greeted her, in the lack of spastic movements heâd once been incapable of controlling. He was different in the way no one ever wanted to be, haunted by a ghost of his past. She saw it in the reflection of his brown eyes, in the set of his jaw, in every passing second. And Allison felt an encompassing guilt. She wanted to reach out, wanted to wrap her arms around him, wanted to whisper Iâm sorry into his ear over and over again until the pain went away.
She didnât, because Allison knew that kind of pain never left. Instead, Allison slowly drew closer, her eyes never leaving his face. Again she saw the struggle, an inner torment, and what she wouldnât give, Allison thought, to take that pain away. Swallowing thickly, only a few inches from him now, she slowly took her hands in his. Fingertips pressed to his wrists, palms against the backs of his hands, she tugged at them gently, gesturing to their conjoined hands between them.
âLook at them,â Allison finally said, glancing down. She let go of his wrists, letting her fingers brush at his knuckles, hoping not to scare him off with the physical gesture. âCount them.â She added, knowing heâd know what she meant, knowing heâd remember. âCount them and youâll know itâs real. Youâll know Iâm real.â
