Swear

When he shows up at your doorstep wearing those ridiculous khaki pants and a smile, when he says your name like it’s effortless and just easy, you shut the door in his face and breathe against it. You fist your hand in your mouth to keep from swearing out loud, and the fabric of your sweater tickles your nose.

You let out a breath, like a pent up sob because seeing his face hurts.

You count the amount of breaths you take and he doesn't stop knocking. It's a while before you manage to pick yourself up and open the door. Your hands are numb and he looks… different, somehow; skinnier, prettier. Just different.

You think maybe you’ve been remembering him wrong.

You don’t remember him smiling much before.

“Ask me if I care,” he says in a voice you wouldn’t recognise if he wasn’t in front of you, a voice you wouldn’t have recognised even those times when you knew him too-well. His eyelashes flutter and you swallow hard.

“You left,” is what you whisper instead, hands folded over your chest. Your shoulders are tight and your stomach bottoms out. You wonder if he can tell.

“Ask me, Brendon.”

You shake your head. “Do you love me?”

There's no space for anything else in your head. In that moment you maybe (irrationally) want to climb into his lap and see if that's changed, too.

He sighs, and reaches for you. You step back, back through the door. He doesn’t step with you.

“That's not what I asked.”

You shrug, staring at the peeling paint on the doorframe with a ridiculous amount of intent. “It’s what I want to know.”

“I care,” he says, like a question, like the answer, like he ran out of words that would mean the same thing.

You remember how you used to think that meant something, once, before. You hold onto yourself too tight and wonder if he remembers, too.