Infatuation

I knew more about her for never having spoken to her. We didn't need to. Because the way she looked at me sometimes, that said it all. She wanted me. She didn't mind that I'd stop by her apartment late, or that I'd watch her sleep, buried under her gray blanket, while the stars strung around her room blinked on and off to the rhythm of her breathing.

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13. Adam

We met in the park.

 

She wore a thin jacket and a had a scarf around her neck, her long hair tied away from her face. She looked tired. And, judging by her expression, a bit pissed that I'd woken her up at god knows what hour.

 

"It's late," she said, like that justified the phone call. "Or early, depending how you look at it. What happened, Adam?"

 

I tugged at my hair. "I'm slipping," I whispered. "I know that. But I can't stop."

 

She frowned. "Did you see Avery tonight?"

 

"Yes," I answered.

 

"Did you tell her that you're sick?"

 

"No." I laughed. "Why would I do a thing like that?"

 

"The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem."

 

I looked at her. This was the woman who had tried for years to help me with my illness. She was kind and smart and beautiful. But it was then, as I took in her words, did I realize something more. Something crucial.

 

She was in the way.

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