Jorts

I leaned onto the doorframe of his bedroom, with my favorite slip dress to sleep in next to him. I can feel the water drip on my neck from my hair as I’ve just showered. He just handed me my towel to make up for the weird energy when I walked in his apartment. He decided to put on his jorts to be silly —he loves to do that, and it melts me. But my reality existed in what happened twenty minutes ago, not the jorts, not that he always acts like my personal court jester whose Essex accent made me laugh for ten minutes straight.

My nerves felt tight, I was running my mouth, giving unsolicited advice about his jorts and the shirt to pair them with, as if he told me he’s dressing up as a patchworked mullet Aussie when in fact he didn’t. He walked away upset, and I realized what I’ve done —I’m doing the same shit I’ve done before. I felt transported back to telling my ex that his low green jeans couldn’t quite flow with his shoes. Maybe I need to learn to hold my tongue? Well, perhaps not about some things, but this one, yes.

In the past six months, I’ve learned so many things from a boy, but more so, from myself. I’ve learnt to be courageous enough to let someone in, and (close) to book a matching tattoo appointment, say the L-word, and the worst of it all, is to be more forgiving.

After sitting apart for an hour on the couch, well, he was scooting closer and closer as Ethan Spiller progressively gets mad at Harper in White Lotus 2. We decided to sleep, and normally when I’m upset, I just feel numb —and the last time I felt numb was when I was lying in the bathtub after a screaming match with my ex. Am I going to lose this one too? Do I even have him to begin with? I’m not so sure.