So Contagious
Steps.
He stood there, right at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me. Wearing that black suit that he always looked so sharp in, with his left hand up on the banister.
He blinked once and I thought he started to smile, but then he stopped.
I knew why. I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t frowning, either. I just started at him with shock and hurt. I didn’t know why he was here, in my house, at seven in the morning. Where could I go to escape him? The house was small, and he knew it like the back of his hand.
He knew it as well as he knew me.
I took a step back from the stairs and he furrowed his brow.
The bedroom. The bathroom. The study. I could lock none of them, he could get into every one and find me. There was no escaping.
“Please,” he said so low, his voice was almost a whisper.
“Draco, no.”
He gripped the banister even tighter and his shoulders slumped a little. I stepped forward and down onto the first step. The floor was cold. I was cold. I had just woken up and was wearing my pajamas. My hair was in a mess and I was sure I looked awful.
I didn’t much care. All I could think about was the fact that he was there, in my home.
“It’s been eight months. Eight months. I thought… I just thought you were never coming back.”
He took three steps up. Six steps left between us.
I stepped one down, when I knew I should be running upstairs, or maybe past him and then out the door.
Five steps.
“I know. I just couldn’t get to you, I could get out. I wanted to.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a bundle of papers.
Letters.
Four steps.
“Are these all to me?” I took it into my hands. It was thick.
“I wrote every day. Maybe twice a day. I didn’t have a lot else to do. I promise, I was never not thinking of you.”
Three steps.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to forgive you. You don’t deserve it. You were terrible to me, and then you made me love you, and then you just left. It was fucking awful.
Two steps. My hand itched. I put it in my sweater pocket.
He reached up and touched my face. I closed my eyes for only a second.
He stepped up. On step.
I stepped back.
Three steps. Four steps. Five steps. Six steps. I stood on top of the stairs again.
Five steps. Four steps. Three steps. Two steps. One step.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and I dropped the letters.
“Rose, I still love you. I always love you. I will always love you. Please.”
I cried on his shoulder, wetting the shoulder of his nice suit.
I stepped back and his brow furrowed again. Slowly, I unbuttoned the front of his jacket and he let me take it off of him. I draped the jacket over the stair banister.
He smiled at me as I bent over and picked up the letters. I took his hand, leading him towards the study.
“I want you to read them out loud to me.”
And he did. I lay next to him and listened to thousands of words he wrote to me and I loved him.
Whether it be healthy or unhealthy, right or wrong, he was the man I loved, and I could not escape.
The end.
He blinked once and I thought he started to smile, but then he stopped.
I knew why. I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t frowning, either. I just started at him with shock and hurt. I didn’t know why he was here, in my house, at seven in the morning. Where could I go to escape him? The house was small, and he knew it like the back of his hand.
He knew it as well as he knew me.
I took a step back from the stairs and he furrowed his brow.
The bedroom. The bathroom. The study. I could lock none of them, he could get into every one and find me. There was no escaping.
“Please,” he said so low, his voice was almost a whisper.
“Draco, no.”
He gripped the banister even tighter and his shoulders slumped a little. I stepped forward and down onto the first step. The floor was cold. I was cold. I had just woken up and was wearing my pajamas. My hair was in a mess and I was sure I looked awful.
I didn’t much care. All I could think about was the fact that he was there, in my home.
“It’s been eight months. Eight months. I thought… I just thought you were never coming back.”
He took three steps up. Six steps left between us.
I stepped one down, when I knew I should be running upstairs, or maybe past him and then out the door.
Five steps.
“I know. I just couldn’t get to you, I could get out. I wanted to.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a bundle of papers.
Letters.
Four steps.
“Are these all to me?” I took it into my hands. It was thick.
“I wrote every day. Maybe twice a day. I didn’t have a lot else to do. I promise, I was never not thinking of you.”
Three steps.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to forgive you. You don’t deserve it. You were terrible to me, and then you made me love you, and then you just left. It was fucking awful.
Two steps. My hand itched. I put it in my sweater pocket.
He reached up and touched my face. I closed my eyes for only a second.
He stepped up. On step.
I stepped back.
Three steps. Four steps. Five steps. Six steps. I stood on top of the stairs again.
Five steps. Four steps. Three steps. Two steps. One step.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and I dropped the letters.
“Rose, I still love you. I always love you. I will always love you. Please.”
I cried on his shoulder, wetting the shoulder of his nice suit.
I stepped back and his brow furrowed again. Slowly, I unbuttoned the front of his jacket and he let me take it off of him. I draped the jacket over the stair banister.
He smiled at me as I bent over and picked up the letters. I took his hand, leading him towards the study.
“I want you to read them out loud to me.”
And he did. I lay next to him and listened to thousands of words he wrote to me and I loved him.
Whether it be healthy or unhealthy, right or wrong, he was the man I loved, and I could not escape.
The end.