Emotional Affair
Because we’re just friends.
I imagine some of the things I might say to him, if he didn’t have up such strong walls.
I will tell you, I’d say with a slightly mischievous side-eye and an inevitable blush, if you tell me to. But you won’t.
I’ll choose when I want to be submissive.
There’s a lion in there — fiercely, my palm unexpectedly on his chest, a smoldering anger born of jealousy in my eyes, too much heat between us — and you are afraid of it.
I won’t say them,
though.
He is afraid of touch.
He is afraid of lust.
He draws very solid lines around himself, lines that won’t be breached. But he craves emotional connection.
I think I manifested you, he texts with a winky face. We are just friends, so it couldn’t possibly be flirting.
I tell him about the way I am, the way my brain works. My “intense laser focus” and “compulsive drive to understand.” His response is to invite me to ask him anything I want to. I write the questions down as I think of them, watching them accumulate. Only a handful go into the Questions I Can’t Ask list.
I will tell you what one is if you tell me to.
