Walls

Nine.

I didn't cry the night the next night. Watching Dally storm out with his back to me the entire time made me feel different. I didn't sleep well after he left, but I didn't cry myself to sleep either.

All I could see behind my eyelids was his bowed head and tense muscles and how much I just wanted to rub the palm of my hand across his back to let him know that I existed and that I wanted to listen to him.

But it was Dallas Winston. No one does that to Dallas Winston. No one takes care of Dallas Winston because Dallas Winston doesn't need to be taken care of and he'll definitely be the first to tell you that.

Which, of course, I realize is all a tough facade of his--that he doesn't actually hate everyone. It's simple psychology and I understood that. But despite my (slight and general) understanding of him, I still didn't reach my hand out when I could have to comfort him. I still didn't demand he acknowledge my presence when the rest of the boys were around. I still didn't let him know that I knew what he was doing--that I knew he just put on a front. Because despite all that, I was still scared of him; still scared of his perfectly broken eyes and his flawlessly slanted smile.

Because I was the broken one. Not him. He can't go changing our roles because that's not what I was used to. I needed to be crying on the floor and he needed to be walking through the door and picking me up to wipe my eyes. That's the way it worked and that's the way it was supposed to work. Because if Dallas Winston thinks he can break and ruin all this perfect catastrophe we've already organized--well, I don't know. But I know that anything other than the arrangement we had would be dangerous.