This isn't the first time I've hidden in this bathroom. Does it matter which time my heart ached worse?
... No, probably not.
I sat and watched my right leg bounce over and over again. In my head, replayed a few moments from some mid-October where I was doing this same thing. Different setting, same action.
Fingers pulling through my hair, legs prepared to jump through the ceiling.
Why did what he said hurt? Why was it relevant at all? After all, my thoughts were only being echoed. He was only agreeing with me.
Then again, he was admitting to having felt this way for a long time, and never letting me know.
I baked him a red velvet cake, and he ate it all in one bite. He told me that, in spite of some parts being a little stale, it was the most incredible thing he'd ever eaten in his life.
And then, a week later, he told me it was actually pretty disgusting, and he didn't want me to bake for him again.
I guess we're entitled to say any words in any order we'd like. God knows I do.
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