She's crying.
Of course she's crying. She always cry. It makes him feel so. Helpless.
"Stop crying." It came out more harshly than he meant it to.
"I mean, there's no point to it. Why don't we just, talk about something else. Or go out somewhere?" He tries.
She looks at him. Her face streaked with tears, her eyes - drained of her usual dancing lights and life - drew him in and then punched him, making a hollow cavity in his chest. "Why?" she whispers, her voice hoarse.
"Why do you keep running? Why can't you, why must you, why" she was crying again. He groaned inwardly. Always the tears. Where did all the tears come from?
"Why can't you stay?" Of course she knew. She was being overly needy. And he, bless his soul, has always drowned in her raging tumultuous torrid of emotions. She, an emotional hurricane that he has never learned to weather.
But despite this. He has tried to stay by her - donned in a disgustingly bright yellow poncho - he fought through tears, rain and sunshine.
But he always looked for a way out. A way to avoid getting wet. To avoid getting sucked in. To avoid getting burned. To avoid any complications. He ran. He ran. Because he didn't know how to stay.
He tried to explain, "What can I say to you? How can I pick up the pieces of your broken heart and mend it back for you? What can I say to make the hurt go away?"
He looked at her, her bone-white fingers, her huddled shoulders, and her oh so sad eyes. Eyes that clawed at the hole inside of him. He felt powerless. Helpless. He pleaded. "Tell me what you want me to say. Tell me what words to use, to make you all better. Just tell me, what can I say to make you smile again?"
Tears were spilling out of her eyes again. What did he say wrong this time? This is why he ran. He felt so awkward. So out of place. He would only make things worse if he tried.
"I don't want you to say anything. That's not the point. All I want, all I need, is just for you to be here with me. That's all. I just want you to stay by me. Just stay."
"I can do that." He nods, relieved that it was really that simple.
"No you can't." She breathes deeply, "but that's okay. I'm giving up. Finally."
"Giving up what?" The words came out ragged. He looked at her. Pleadingly. For a lie. Because the way she looked at him, made him fear the truth. But she refuse to give him that comfort. She refuse to make things easy for him. She was done.
"I'm giving up on you. Your games. Your pretenses. Keep them. I don't mind that you use me. That you lie to me. That you hurt me. I don't mind giving you whatever miserable bit of me that I have left. But I hate how you make me hate myself." They came like bullets. Things he knew. Things he did without knowing why.
"What are you trying to say?" He asked.
She laughed. Mockingly. But oh so sadly. "I just said it. I'm giving up."
"On you."
He winced.
She wiped her tears. She got up. Turned to leave.
"I love you," he whispered. Whimpered. Begged.
"I know." She said. And without turning around. She left.
And he stayed.
