Awry

Mary, mother of God.

Why? How? When? All the questions were there on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't know their answers. She didn't want to know why, she was scared she already knew how, and she really didn't want to know when she had feelings for him. She was always so careful too, and now she'd gone and ruined the friendship, not perfect but not too rocky; all because of something she knew she couldn't go back and undo, and he was in the next room, and what if she was crying too loudly, or what if she loved him? She couldn't take a shower; the scent of his soap would be too heartbreaking. She couldn't go back in the room in just the towel she wrapped herself in; he could wake up, and she couldn't bear the embarrassment. She trusted him with her life, and in a single moment, she'd lost all ability to ever be herself around him again.

She looked in the mirror, and immediately wished she hadn't. Her hair, mussed and tousled more than it usually was, fell to her waist in limp brown waves, her dark eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying, and her skin seemed deathly pale. She splashed her face with warm water to see if it would bring at least some kind of color back into her cheeks; it didn't. She opened the door and peered out into his bedroom, seeing him still asleep. Despite the flood of emotions that coursed through her in that second, she was relieved to find him still asleep, and decided now would be a good time. She'd just grab her clothes, and find her keys - wherever the hell they were - and she'd be gone. Simple as that.

"Even the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry."

Creeping in his room, she had to thank the fact that it was carpeted, though the floor squeaked slightly beneath her feet. She held her breath as she neared the bed, off the edge of which his arm hung, his fingers brushing the floor, the covers to his waist, and as she reached out to pick up her deserted shirt, aforementioned fingers closed tightly around her waist and she sucked in a breath of air, her wide eyes meeting his light green ones. It all flashed through her mind as fast as lightning - the way she had intended to push him away with her hands on the sides of his face when he'd kissed her but ended up sliding them through his hair, the way his hands weren't close enough to her skin, the line then blurred between pain and pleasure and the blissful torture racing through her, then when she woke up beside him, ran to the bathroom and collapsed against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes pouring all they had forth.

"Why?" he whispered. She swallowed; she wanted to tell him that she didn't know why either, she wanted to believe it, but she knew she didn't, and she wouldn't. She could run easily, but her feet seemed glued to the floor, her gaze held by his and her wrist hurting faintly because of his grip. She felt like she couldn't breathe properly.

"I have to go," she choked out, her voice rough and deeper from crying. She tugged back but he didn't let go, and before she could speak again he pulled her down and she suddenly found herself pinned between his body and the mattress. Her heart thudded against her ribs and her blood rushed through her ears and she couldn't move her arms to push him off of her... but then she realized it wasn't that she couldn't. It was that she wouldn't. And though their legs were tangled hopelessly in the sheets and tears were slipping down into her ears, she didn't even try to stop him from kissing her, but the reality was there.

She was kissing her best friend. She had just had sex with her best friend, and she was about to be in that endless cycle of beating herself up after it was over with again and again.