Chapter 9
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I fear I am my own undoing.
Morana
Kyran is going to be the end of me. He’s determined to kill me very, very slowly.
And, to make everything worse? He now knows I want a life-size plushie of his stupid beautiful face!
Face down in my bed, I scream into the pillows until I am all out of air and my head is light, then I refill and go at it again.
I love you.
No, you don’t. You don’t. You can’t. I’m just…funny. I’m just an amusement right now. Someone who play fights with you. If I let all my like out? If I stop providing this dopamine rush that comes in our back-and-forths? If I start treating you right, like a boyfriend, that’s it.
I’ll become so dull you won’t want anything to do with me.
Everything I can offer will dry up.
Memories of Talira slip between the cracks of my mind’s fortress, and I find myself fighting down tears.
I helped her, constantly. However I could.
With whatever I could. Her chores at home.
Her schoolwork. Everything. I gave, and gave, and gave, not once realizing until it was too late that the only thing she offered in return was being there.
Not for me, even. Just. Plain. Existing.
When she found her fulfillment in that boyfriend of hers, I became so suddenly irrelevant. Her grades sank, but he didn’t like her talking to me so much, and she really needed to learn to do things on her own, didn’t she?
Ultimately, we were too close for his liking; she told me so during one of her rants to me concerning her discontent in the relationship. After they finally broke up and she came crawling back, it was my fault. Why couldn’t I see how toxic he was? Why didn’t I understand that she was the victim?
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I told her repeatedly that he was a red flag? Every single time she cropped up with a horror she just “needed a friend to help her process,” I said, Yikes. Please break up with him.
But she didn’t listen.
Not once.
Not until—apparently—it was all my fault I didn’t drag her away against her will before she became a victim.
People see what they can get out of you. That’s just life. The only place where that hasn’t been the standard is with my mom, my dad, and my sister.
Just once I wish I could find myself on Talira’s end of a relationship, with someone like me who looked at her and gave without question or thought and didn’t even realize she was completely useless…because just talking to her was enough to balance the unseen scale.
While I’m sniffling myself toward an early rest, my doorbell rings.
Immediate, uncontrollable dread hits a wall of thundering swears.
Pushing myself upright, I peer out my bedroom door.
The bell rings again.
I look down, at my pajamas, which are black, tight, and skimpy.
The bell rings. Again. And again. And if it doesn’t stop ringing I will actually kill someone.
In a burst of insanity, I launch off my bed, wrench open my dresser, grab the first baggy t-shirt I get my hands to, throw it on, and stomp to the door. “What?” I shriek.
Kyran stands there, his finger on the bell. His mouth opens with a practiced shape to it that suggests he is once again intending to bestow a list of unwanted Kyran facts upon me, but something holds his tongue.
His eyes stick on my chest.
I become very aware of the fact I’m not wearing a bra.
Softly, he says, “Oh my—” and swears. His eyes track back up to mine, and he says, “You’re a fan.”
I go cold and pale.
“A proper fan.”
Terrified, I…glance…down.
At Kyran’s face. On my breasts. For the second time in as many horrible days.
He covers his mouth with his hand. Eyes wide, he whispers, “You’re obsessed with me.”
“No—” I fight for a breath. “I’m not— I—”
He takes an aggressive step forward, into my house, and I let him, because I am retreating while my brain shuts itself down. Delighted, he says, “Where’s a marker? I’ll sign it for you.”
Oh mercy. Oh goodness. Oh swearing word.
I squeeze my eyes shut as waves of shame and embarrassment smack me in the face like a raw tortilla.
He stops, eyes wide with boyish bliss, as he…locates the scribble already on my shirt. Because I…already bought the signed version.
He twists his hand, pressing his knuckles to his lips.
“Please…” I croak.
“Oh my—” Swear. “You’re proper obsessed with me.”
I…am. Unfortunately.
Wrapping my arms around myself in a futile effort to cover more of this travesty, I cut into Kyran’s monologue of determining which merch drop this was in and how long I’ve been obsessed with him to ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Hm?” He remembers himself and lifts a tote bag.
“I’ve been printing off couple’s quizzes throughout the day.
Compatibility tests. Who knows who best. Favorites lists.
Those sorts of things. And I also brought some snacks.
PB&J. Turkey swiss. Egg salad.” He peeks into his bag, perusing the selection before his attention catches on my dining room table and the mess covering it.
The cardboard town steals his every thought, then holds him captive.
I find myself rather on the end of defeated.
“Is that…” he begins, trailing further into my home uninvited.
It’s my own fault. I know it’s my own fault.
Kyran is honest. To a fault. To the point of being considered crass or rude. He says what he thinks, believes, or intends, no holds barred.
And earlier today, he said bulldoze and boundaries in the same breath. He said stop me, and I didn’t. And now? Now I face the consequences.
Unbidden, Kyran’s expression melts into a smile so warm and full I find myself struck to the core by it. “Wow,” he says, gentleness incarnate. He looks at me—turns the full glory of his smile on me even though I have zero protection against it. “You made all this?”
My lips part, but I can’t speak. I can’t say, yeah, I made all that, I had to make all that to strong-arm my stupid brain into doing stupid tasks, even basic self care cards are strewn in that city, because, if left to my own devices, I don’t shower or shave or anything, and it’s worse now without Maelin.
So much worse. And I think I’m falling apart. And I’m barely an adult. And…
“It’s incredible.”
It isn’t.
“Is that a mechanic shop?” A thread of never-before-heard excitement flirts with his voice.
Weakly, I say, “Car tasks.” Maintenance. Oil changes. Those sorts of very important things, which I won’t do, unless I get points that I turn into colorful printed money and can use on childish rewards.
“I’m obsessed with this,” Kyran states, opting for humor on top of the smile when he looks at me. The combination turns him practically smug. “Just like you’re obsessed with me.”
My heart was not briefed on how to handle this level of cool confidence.
In my room, my phone goes off, an email notification, probably junk, but it draws both my attention and Kyran’s.
One text.
One quick text STOP, and he leaves.
One line, spoken, saying—calmly and clearly—that I’m going to text STOP, and he won’t take another step…from the table in my dining room…across the floor…to my bedroom.
One. Line.
One. Word.
If I just say stop, he will.
I know that.
Because I know Kyran, at least a little bit. I’ve spent the past eight months in a place where he is. And I’ve been obsessed with him for years before that. He is real. And he is kind. And he will listen.
If I just speak.
Standing at my bedroom doorway, he lets loose a string of swears. “This is beautiful.”
Something in the hollow expanse of my chest awakens.
“You’re a goblin,” he blurts, whirling to look at me.
I flinch, and the fact that is the absolute opposite of wow, I’m so in love with you reactivates my ability to function. “A…goblin?”
“Known hoarders.”
“Tiny green monsters.”
“Average-size insatiable hoarders.”
“Grotesque, small, disgusting monsters.”
He holds my gaze, then he says, “Agree to disagree.”
I sputter, marching toward him. “You can’t just keep saying—”
“Agree to disagree.” He breaks the sanctity of my bedroom by stepping across the threshold.
“There’s so much to look at. No wonder you weren’t keen on moving.
Your cave would not relocate easily… Maybe we should spend some of tonight packing.
One box a day, and you’ll barely realize you live with me until it’s too late to begin the arduous process of attempting to move back.
” Awestruck, he runs his fingers across the plastic mane of one of my tokidokis.
“It’s worse than my gaming room in here… ”
Finding my nerve, I grip my fists. “Listen here, e-boy—”
“Need me to bring you your phone,” he asks, instantly mellowed.
I flinch. “No, I—”
Twisting back toward the door, he taunts, “No, huh?”
Then the absolute worst case scenario in the history of worst case scenarios transpires…
as his vision catches, on the shrine by my door.
Heat settles into his eyes, and I watch in slow motion as he approaches my FrostPlays merch collection.
Dark as an angel asking for my soul, Kyran touching a finger to his lips. “Well—”
I gulp.
“—isn’t this charming?”
I shudder.
His gaze hits me, heavy. “About that denial, mistress…”
“Sh…” I find air. “Shut up. I’m a fan. So what? You have millions of them. I like your videos. I like your vibe. You already know I don’t hate you. Even though,” I grit, “I can be convinced to reevaluate that terrible decision.”
He sits on my bed.
My heart hits my uvula.
Crossing his legs, he leans forward and plants his elbow on his thigh. Chin in palm, he watches me.
Red steadily takes over every inch of my flesh.
“Oh ho?” he purrs, which is something I did not know he could do. “I thought you told me that being on someone’s bed is quite literally nothing, mistress. Lots of reevaluating happening in your pretty little head right now, isn’t there?”