Phil's in my room. He's stretched out on my bed, asleep. I'm sat next to him, leaning out of my window while I smoke a cigarette. I watch as his chest rises and falls slowly, his bare limbs twisting in my covers as he turns over. He tugs the comforter off me, but I don't mind. I reach over and play with his hair with my free hand, gently winding the light brown strands around my fingers.
He stirs a little and I run my fingers over his cheek lightly, leaning down to kiss his temple. His lips part a little as he shifts, almost begging to be kissed. I flick my cigarette out of the window and oblige, settling down beside him. His arm slides over my waist and I let him pull me against his body. He cracks one eye open a little and smiles sleepily at me. I smile back, kissing him again. He returns my kiss lazily, before turning over and pulling my arms around him. I bury my face in the nape of his neck, humming happily to myself.
I guess I'll understand why you don't believe me when I say we're not going out. It feels like we are sometimes, but we're strictly friends with benefits.
In this town, we shouldn't even be that.
I feel sick to my stomach. I'm clinging to whatever I can remember that's good in the hope that it might pull me through. Thinking of Phil hurts, but what else is left for me to think about? I curl up in a ball and let my mom do her best to comfort me as I cry. What a fucking wimp.
Citalopram can go die in a hole. I'm not taking any more of those things. Ever.