He’s thinking about it.
Thomas is bending over him. His hair falling in his eyes, lips upturned in a gentle smile. Hands making their way down. His fingers trace over it.
“Wait.” he says, sitting up. “I can’t do this.” He tries not to notice his expression falling as he takes a step back.
He stops thinking about it, his heart aching and his eyes burning with fresh tears. Why did I say no? He thought. Why?
Then he finds himself thinking about his eyes, his laugh, the way his hands felt against his skin. It was all coming back too fast even though it had been too long to hurt anymore. He might have been sobbing, but he couldn’t hear himself.
There’s a knock at the door. He’s pulled out of his thoughts, and only one replaces them. What the woman with the harsh-smelling perfume had told him. You have to start telling yourself that it won’t be him.
He bit his lip and got up, wiping his eyes. It was only a few steps to the door, but they felt like hundreds and when he finally had his hand around the knob he was shaking. You have to accept what happened and keep going, she had told him. Clayton inhaled violently and opened the door.
The man at his doorstep was crying, or maybe it was just the rain. His red hair was soaked, dripping onto his clothing and his face. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days, and his shoelaces were untied. There was a silver ring on his left finger.
For a moment he was absolutely frozen. There he was, directly in front of him. The same person he had been in love with ten years ago.
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