Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 71595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71595 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
It’s enough to have my head literally start pounding, and it doesn’t help at all that so many things about him aren’t adding up. When the girls waiting outside the university hall started screaming upon catching a glimpse of X through the windows, to say that I was shocked would have been a vast understatement.
The X I once knew always wore a mask, someone who pretended to be a courteous, charming angel who never lost his smile. This X, however, appears to have stopped giving a shite about what other people say about him. The X I once knew liked to tease and flirt, but the only thing this X seemed to like doing is alternate between scowling and glaring – at me.
I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does. It hurts like the bloody hell actually, but there’s no way – absolutely no way – I’m going to let him put me down just like that.
So enough of this, blast it.
Whatever his reason is for seemingly wanting to hurt me again and again, I won’t give him the satisfaction of showing him that it’s working. I’m stronger now, and I’ll show him that.
Think ojousama. I reach for the pot and pour us tea, and I feel proud when I manage to keep my hands from shaking.
Speak like an ojousama. “Itadakimasu,” I murmur as I place his cup in front of him, and after a moment, his lips move, but what he says is barely audible, like he thinks I don’t even deserve to hear his voice, and...the pain is so much worse now.
Be an ojousama. But when I reach for my cup, I can no longer control my hands from trembling a little. Blast him. Blast him. BLAST HIM. But my inner chaos is ¼ resentment, ¾ pain, and it’s so pathetic that I just want to drink my sorrows away like before.
So I gulp the whole thing down.
His eyes widen.
A moment later, I’m choking.
I’ve forgotten how hot Japanese like their tea. It’s almost as hot as hi—-
Him.
Him.
Him.
Hippopotamuses, I almost scream at myself.
“Are you okay?”
Finally, he speaks.
And now I’m wishing he didn’t.
Because his voice—-
It’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. It’s exactly the way it used to be, and it’s making me remember things I should’ve long stopped caring about.
Senpai. Senpai. Senpai.
That’s how he used to call me, on account that I’m a year older than him, but somehow he’s turned it into the sexiest little endearment.
Senpai. Senpai. Senpai.
If I close my eyes now, I can so easily pretend that it’s just like before, and oh, I’m so blasted tempted to just do it. Pretend that all’s still okay because the pathetic thing is, even with everything he’s done—-
I still yearn for the way it used to be.
“Does it still hurt?”
I want to laugh. Or bang my head against the table. I know he’s talking about my scalded tongue, but I don’t give a crap, and I say jerkily, “Like you care.”
There’s this second of silence—-
His expression turns cold. “You’re right.”
Before I can understand what’s happening, he’s already stood up, and by the time I realize he’s really leaving—-
He’s already walking away.
Just. Like. That.
Word of the Day: Mecha, n.
1. A genre of anime or manga in which major characters pilot fighting robots (e.g. Gundam, Pacific Rim);
2. Most types of Transformers cannot be strictly defined as ‘mecha’ as they are sentient robots that do not require human piloting.
Blog #726
I spoke to my mom on the phone earlier – well, figuratively speaking, that is. I was actually FaceTiming with her, and we talked for about two hours. Or at least it feels like that, the way my jaw is aching right now. My roommate caught me crying afterwards. I know she thinks it’s because of X, and I let her think that.
And yeah, she knows everything about X now – and I do mean everything. Every shameful detail.
Don’t you think it’s funny that I can so easily tell her of how I used to be this boy’s toy in high school but I can’t seem to make myself tell her about what my mom’s going through? It’s almost like cancer’s something to be ashamed of, when I know it’s not. I know – I bloody well know that, but...it doesn’t change the way I feel. I hate it, I fear it, and I don’t want to talk about it because talking about it makes it more real.
And sometimes, I just want to pretend.
Or maybe the right term is to...fantasize.
I USED TO FANTASIZE about hot guys a lot. It was nothing personal, though, but more of a work requisite than anything else. I needed the right kind of stimulus, and it’s only when I’m turned on that my fingers begin to move and I can start drawing bodies that move against each other, becoming one the way only lovers can be.