øne

i hear scratching.
not nail-on-skin scratching. it sounds like... i glance up.
pencil-on-paper. he's writing, his hand going along the small lines, adding, adding, scratching. was he even listening to me?
"ty?"
he stops. his hand's shaking, and the pencil falls to the ground.
"ty, were you even listening?"
his eyes shoot up, and he's crying again. he sniffs, and grabs my good hand. his hand's warmer than mine.
"you are fucking beautiful, (y/n)."
i shake my head. "you don't understand what i'm saying." my eyes are glossy. "you can't see what i see."