Page 81 of Spearcrest Knight

If she’s telling the truth, then whoever Sophie likes is probably everything she wants in a guy. Whereas I symbolise everything she hates. So of course Sophie is never going to choose me.

If I was smart, I’d do exactly what she said and stay away from her.

Except.

Except except except.

The logical side of my brain and the hungry side crash into each other in deafening clangs of chaotic thoughts. Every thought rings with the word “except”.

Sophie didn’t want to kiss me,exceptshe’s the one who drunkenly pulled me to her at that party and kissed me first.

Sophie fancies somebody else,exceptshe kissed me on Christmas eve and let me go down on her and came so hard her thighs were still shaking even while she was rejecting me.

Sophie hates me,exceptshe’s the one who initiated sex yesterday and let me fuck her against a discarded table in the assembly hall cupboard.

I should give up on Sophie,exceptI just fucking can’t bring myself to.

Because wanting Sophie is worse than thirst or hunger or desire. It’s a deep, devouring need, undeniable and all-consuming. Every night when I crawl into my bed and close my eyes, the darkness behind my eyelids fills up with images of her, of her hair in that strict centre parting, of her dark brown eyes, of her mouth opening against mine, of her raspy voice coming out in short gasps.

Thinking about Sophie used to feel good, but now it’s galvanising. I don’t even try to rein in my fantasies anymore. I put her in scenarios in my head that make me so hard I have no choice but to touch myself. But letting my head constantly fill with these images doesn’t help, it only makes me crave her more.

And that's how I end up like this: my phone turned off so I’m not tempted to text her, pacing up and down my house still hoping she turns up. Of course, she doesn’t turn up, and of course, it hurts like hell.

I wait a whole hour before I finally accept that she’s not coming, but I still feel restless. The house both feels too big and too small, so I pull on a sweatshirt, swap my jeans for running leggings and shorts, and get out of the house.

Outside, it’s not snowing anymore, and the cold winter sun has already melted the remains of yesterday’s snowfall. The air is cool and crisp in my lungs. The pavement is wet, but no longer slippery, so I set off on a run.

Normally, I run around the residential streets and towards Atwood Heather Botanical Garden. It’s quiet there this time of year, the perfect place to get away from everything.

But today, my feet take me in another direction, and I don’t question it until I realise I’m jogging up Fernwell high street. It’s a Tuesday afternoon so it’s fairly quiet, and most of the shops still have their decorations up, the dark street bright with twinkling lights.

I know I’m making a huge mistake by being here, so I enter into a bargain with myself. I’m just going to jog past Sophie’s café, that's it. I might glance inside. Just to see her, to see if she’s okay. Not even just to see if she’s okay. I’m allowing myself to justlookat her—nothing else, nothing more.

A starving man should be allowed tolookat a slice of cake even if he’s not allowed to touch it.

Nothing wrong with that.

Once I’ve rationalised my actions, I jog up the street. Even though my pace is fairly slow and my cardiovascular health is pretty good, my heart is beating like crazy. I draw closer to the green and gold facade of The Little Garden, a sense of impending doom crashing down on me.

What if she sees me? What if she thinks I’m stalking her? What if she hates me even more than she already does?

Well. It’s too late. I’m running past the shop front.

I’m slowing down.

I’m stopping.

And the impending doom actualises into brutal, painful reality.

Yes, Sophie is there. She has her hair tied back into a low bun, and she’s wearing an apron over her black turtleneck top. She looks good enough to eat, good enough to love, good enough to fucking worship.

The café is empty, and she’s sitting up on the countertop next to a girl with purple hair. She’s talking and laughing, transformed by her smile.

In front of her is a guy in a big sweater. He has a mop of dark hair and I can’t see his face because his back is to the window. But he’s holding up a cupcake in front of Sophie, and she leans down to smell it, and he bops the top of the cupcake to the tip of her nose and she pulls back in surprise and bursts out laughing.

Her cheeks are flushed as the guy hands her the cupcake and she takes it, and when he walks away from her, her eyes follow him to the doorway through which he disappears. Her smile dims slightly after he walks away—because he was the one making her laugh.

Something black and monstrous rises inside me, something which scrapes and claws its way up my gut, through my throat, inside my mind.

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