1642734778_punk-57-pdf

won’t be the same once I see his face. Things will change, and I will have
broken what worked. It will be awkward, and he won’t have been prepared
for me just to show up like this. What if we both just sit there, twiddling our
thumbs and not saying anything, because I’m the crazy stalker who hunted
him down, and now he feels weird?
“Screw it,” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself, but I don’t care.
I rely on him. I have a right to. We’ve had that commitment for seven
years. If he doesn’t want me to show up, then he damn-well should’ve
written back and told me it was over. I have a right to know what’s going
on.
Pushing open my door, I hop out of my Jeep and slam it shut. With
weak legs and shallow breaths, I jog across the street, pushing my fear out
of my head.
Don’t think. Just go. He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just
need to know.
Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the
windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back,
readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.
I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s
home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.
No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He
won’t care what I look like.
I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in,
sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at
cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have
one yet today.
Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t
smell yourself.