“And?”
“And you never give anyone compliments.”
His lips twitch as if on the verge of a smile. Which I already know can’t be the case.
Not with him.
If anything, his lips are going to be on the verge of a smirk.
Arrogant, condescending, I’m-too-cool-for-this-world smirk.
“I’m pretty sure I do.”
“Well okay, so let me rephrase,” I say. “You never give compliments to me.”
And there it is: his smirk.
All dark and in its glory.
“Ah,” he drawls again, nodding as if reaching a conclusion of some sort. “I hear hurt feelings.”
“There are no —”
“Well, allow me to rectify that.”
“You don’t —”
“You look pretty in blue,” a pause, “Echo.”
Happy birthday, Echo.
Echo…
He said that. That night, I mean.
In fact, he said itrightbefore.
The thing that ruined my life. The kiss.
I realize that except for my name, his words just now are completely different from before.
But somehow it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’tfucking matter.
Because the things that happen inside of me, the tidal wave of feelings that emerge, are exactly the same.
I combust. I go up in flames. I die.
I fly.
Like I did that night.
And this is not good. This is very, very bad.
I want this déjà vu feeling to go away. I wanthimto go away.
Why won’t he just go away?