Page 89 of Come to Me

Fuck. A tear rolls down my cheek. It stings, salty and hot. I can't cry. Not now. Not after we had one of thoseI can be patient, I love you, I don't mind putting up with all your bullshitconversations.

"I'm sure asking if you want to talk will only make things worse." There's no annoyance in his voice.

It's still playful. He's joking now.

"Maybe I should go," I say.

"Maybe you should humor me and tell me what you were 'just thinking.'"

I press the phone against my ear, sliding my fingers over its glass back. "You won't like it."

"You aren't the expert on everything I like. There are plenty of things I like that you know nothing about."

Another tear rolls down my cheek. I try and blink it away, but it only makes everything around me blurry, like some kind of Instagram filter from hell.

Damn it. Not now.

"Ally."

"It's nothing." I wipe tears from my cheeks, wiping my hand against the sheets to dry it.

"Talk to me."

"I can't."

He sighs, low and heavy. "You were talking a few minutes ago."

"I'm going to go." I slide my fingers over the edges of the phone. It's so slick and smooth. It repels anything that tries to stick to the surface.

"And cry in your room by yourself?"

"I'll be fine."

He sighs, again. "Don't do this. Don't shut me out."

"I'm not doing anything. I'm fine. Tired, but fine."

"You're crying."

"I'm well aware of that." I blink back another tear, breathing deep to calm my stupid fucking diaphragm. Tears, I can hide. But I can't do anything about these stupid sobs.

There's a long moment of silence. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

"We were talking," he says.

There's no fight in his voice. He's losing patience and I can't blame him.

The quiet surrounds me. There's nothing outside--no horns, no pedestrians, no wind.

"Ally..." It's soft, like he's stroking my hair, like he's whispering in my ear.

I move to the window and press my palms against it. The glass is cold and sleek, but I almost believe I'm touching the night outside.

I almost believe I'm not in a prison of my own design.

"Don't give up on me," I say. It's so weak, so quiet. A pathetic plea when it should be a demand.

"I don't want to." But there's a hesitation to it.