Page 40 of Bleeding Hearts

Yeah, I could probably choose to get past my fears of it going to shit. There’s even a part of me that truly believes Demi and I could be different from how my parents were, that we could let love save us instead of tormenting us.

But then there is the other issue. What if I get sick again? What if I put her through falling in love with me only to potentially lose me? That’s something I could never inflict on another person, especially her.

I want to be the selfish guy who says fuck it and asks for more with her, but I can’t.

“Because what if the best choice I can make is to leave her alone?” I finally say.

“Don’t you think that should be for her to decide?” She stands from the chair, starting to walk toward the open doorway.

The question hits me right in the chest. Is it even more selfish of me to not allow her to make the decision for herself? I haven’t allowed myself to think that way and I hate that I have to now.

“You care about her as way more than just a friend. I can see it in your eyes every time her name is brought up, every time you pick up your phone with a text from her. I also know she cares about you even if she’s too stubborn to fully admit it,” she adds with a light laugh. “I know you’re scared of hurting her, but it’s because of that that I know you won’t. There’s always a risk of pain, but you can decide that happiness,love, is worth that risk.” She smiles at me softly before turning to leave.

“Hey, Lo?” I call out to her and she turns back around in the doorway. “Thank you.” I smile at her.

“Anytime.” She nods at me before leaving the room.

I let her words stew, thinking them over as I finish the rest of my workday and all the way until I’m in bed, getting ready to fall asleep. I think about the risk of pain and how I could handle all the pain in the world, and it would be worth it to be with Demi. But Demi’s pain wouldn't be.

Don’t you think that should be up to her to decide?

The question plays over in my head. I want the answer to be no. I want to be able to protect her from the possibility of being hurt. But the more I think about it, I know the answer is yes.

And I have no clue what the fuck to do with that.

“I quit,” Demi yells, walking into my apartment unannounced as she normally does.

I didn’t give her a key; she stole mine and had her own made.

If she were anyone else, I would’ve flipped the fuck out at that, but she’s Demi, and the truth is that I love when she barges in here.

I moved into this apartment about a year ago and it’s only two blocks away from hers. The building is pretty nice, and the neighbors are quiet, mostly tech guys, I think.

I had still barely decorated the place when Demi and I started getting closer, so she took it upon herself to do so.

The apartment itself is all white walls, cabinets and countertops, with wood floors and dark-brown furniture. But the decor is all bright colors, with pops of blues and oranges in every corner. It’s definitely not what I would’ve chosen, but Demi chose it, so I left it. It makes it special.

“Your job?” I ask as she makes her way into my bedroom, where I’m lying half-naked on the bed.

She barely acknowledges me as she walks in, too distracted by her own panic. She shrugs her blazer off her shoulders as she paces back and forth near the foot of the bed.

“No, I quit the Philharmonic.” She gives me a deadpan look. “What the fuck do you think I quit? Yes, my job.” She throws her hands in the air in frustration.

“And how are we feeling about that?” I ask, sitting up to give her my full attention.

“Do you have scissors?” she asks as she speed walks out of my room.

I don’t like that response. I jump from the bed, following her out of the room and into the kitchen. I get there just in time to see her grabbing the kitchen scissors out of the drawer.

“Cut it.” She hands me the scissors, referring to her hair.

“Fuck no. Nobody’s cutting any hair right now. You’re not in the right mindset for that type of decision.” I reach out to grab the scissors from her, but she quickly pulls them back toward her.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.” She grabs a random piece of her hair, cutting it right below her shoulders.

I’m able to grab the scissors from her hand as she pauses to watch the long strand fall to the floor, her eyes wide with shock.

“I have to do the rest,” she says, a new determination filling her eyes. She steps forward, trying to grab them back from me.

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