A damned flannel that fitted your sharp edges, your squared shoulders.
Something inside me danced; I could feel my stupid blush creeping up my dumbfounded face.
I just can't believe you, it's almost like you write down the details I love about you, and one day bam! You use one against my brittle, pining self.
A very good one at that.
(I love flannels, and I love how they fit you and your stupid grin. Ugh, if only you could simply stop being so fucking adorable--)
And yeah, I have to stop a bit before writting again, before instantly combusting at the single thought about you and your choice in clothing.
You are a menace. You make my feelings drip from my words, my touch, my fucking face-
I tell you I love your shirt.
I run a hand throught your hair.
I can't stop beaming at you being yourself, simply existing and being my favourite definition of reckless.
Also, your hair is the messiest I've ever seen.
Another reason I want to scream, but don't. I wonder if I look crazed enough as it is right now.
Y'know, speaking of truths, I got a full catalogue on every detail I catch on you, old or new, and this new bashful smile it's really something else.
It makes my heart skip a beat. At the smile, and also at it's possible meaning.
I try to decipher it softly, giving you more praise, stealing little glances here and there.
The smile stays, just like my rhythmic heartbeats.
And I get the connection, finally.
And it's of so sweet use for me, but it's also so, so dangerous information.
So I archive it with everything else I get out of you, and drop the topics. I have to get out as soon as possible, before my eyes reveal more than they surely do as for now.
And then, I stop to just think and-
No.
It cannot be.
It's just as if.. we both do the same, at the same time. We both want the same reaction from the other, and we both read each other easily, as if we both were the oldest of books to find at our own bookshelfs.
My head is spinning at this single implication.
It... Simply cannot. No. I'm sure this is some kind of stupid mistake, a delusion of mine, not a chance. No way, no-
"I like your outfit"
You touch my leg.
You smirk, a bit flushed in the cheeks. Conspirational.
You twirl some of your long, beautiful hair.
It is sort of like a deja vu.
A very painful one.
This archive.. it's getting heavier and heavier to carry around.
Maybe... I should just toss it.
Yeah.. it would be for the best, I guess.