Sometimes he forgets.
They’d sit together, eating popcorn and watching some movie Oliver rented and they’d be laughing and having a good time then he’d ever so slightly reach over to hold his hand and he’d pull back.
Like the mere thought of them touching would kill him. He’d see the way Oliver shakes ever so slightly and tries to not take it personally. He knows it’s not him. He knows it. It’s not really him he’s rejecting but he can’t stop the bitter burn that settles in his stomach.
“I’m tired.” Oliver would say, and he’d know this was his cue to leave.
Prep
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