#yandiary

You’re physical with everyone you are close to and with such an absentminded ease. Always a tactile person ever since I have met you, my love. How long ago since I agonised over your little commonplace touches then and how much I still long for them now. You are closer to me than I assume you are with your other friends, I think (I hope—not that I have any way of confirming). Perhaps it is because of how intimately I have known you physically and otherwise in the past.

You would lean your head on my shoulder and hold my arm with a soft sigh simply because you were tired, put your hand on my thigh mid-laugh when I'm sitting next to you as if to use me for support, hold my hands up to your eyes to examine if there are open wounds along the edges of my nails from my stress-influenced vices (I would tear myself apart and stain myself with blood if it meant you would hold my hands more. Maybe you would bandage and kiss them like you used to.). You still hug as a form of greeting and goodbye, so I have an excuse to breathe you in and hold you close just for five seconds (I counted.). You still smell good. I will spare you the waxing poetics about just how good. Beloved, I never wanted to let you go once I had you in my arms again, safe and warm where you belonged, but I don’t have the right.

Surely you must know how much it means to me? How much you threaten to unravel me with just the slightest graze of your hand? How can you not? I don’t allow anyone else to make casual physical contact like that. I feel like I wear my wistful brand of want openly on my face, and I try not to look at you too much in case you see what is hidden there. I look at your reflection on the opposite train window to watch you exist without having to turn my head and be seen in turn.

You don't seem to notice though, even when others do, even when complete strangers smile and tell you “He must love you very much” when I hold an umbrella more towards your side while my arm is soaked (It’s the bare minimum if you ask me.) and you immediately chime in to say we were just friends. They were right though, because I do. I always fucking will.

"I love you."

How long has it been since he heard those three little words? He had never gotten used to such simple expressions of affection in the past, and he certainly hasn't gotten used to it now after months of cessation. He can't bear to look at her. Tears start to well up in his eyes; his words are strangled in his throat. He is weak (always, still) for her and her alone.

"Again."

She says his name so sweetly that he can hear her smile when she says it, feeling the ghost of her soft fingers gently holding his cheek from the deepest vestiges of his memory.

"I love you."

His knees buckle under the weight of her love, sinking to the ground painfully swift in front of her. She doesn't motion to stop him, unable to.

"Please."