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When I look up, he's moved closer to me, his hand approaches me, fingers brushing beneath my eye, precisely where the scar is.

“You speak to me less than your eyes do.”

I missed his voice.

“Don't do this.”

He withdraws his hand gently, as if he doesn't want to break what he's just brought into being, but he doesn't back away either. “You disappeared after that night,” he says finally, and his voice is harder now. “Next time, don't do that.”

“I don't want you to judge me.”

I shouldn’t have said it like that. I was afraid he would look at me differently, as if I were something fragile and broken. I am not. Even if I was, my mind was the only place allowing this version to exist. Instead he tilts his head slightly, and I see the same respect I found in his gaze when I first met him.

“I'm not judging you,” he says. “I'm worried.”

“Don't be,” I reply, softer this time. “It's not worth it.”

“If you think isolating yourself is better,” he answered, without changing his serious tone, “then it is worth it.”

I bite my tongue to avoid saying something stupid.

His presence is suffocating, it’s stealing the air out of my lungs, and when I meet his eyes only to see how soft they are, something in me breaks.

I could never let him get too close. I would ruin him to push him away forever.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice brings me back to our conversation. And I clench my jaw, not understanding why the question bothers me so much.

“Doing what?”

“Leaving whenever you could stay and talk to me.”

I look away immediately before whispering, “I am here.” But it sounds false even to me.

He smiles sadly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You're hard to read.”

I let out a small, humorless sigh. “Why would you want to read me?”

“Because I don’t understand when you change like this,” he protested. “One day you’re looking at me, the next you’re gone. Disappearing without a word.”

I shake my head slightly, “I’m not disappearing.”

For a second, I think he’s going to give up. Then I feel something brush against my hand, and look up. His fingers have caught the tips of mine without me noticing. My breath catches, and I want to pull my hand away, but physically can’t.

“Yes you do, Miss Vitelli. You disappear all the time.”

I frown slightly. “Where?”

Something flickers in his eyes, then he breathes, “In your head.”

I feel the warmth of his fingers against mine, and I hate how my body is already getting used to it. “And how do you know that?”

His gaze flickers down to my hand for a second before returning to mine. “Because I'm looking at you.”

He’s looking at me.

“That's inappropriate, then.”

“Maybe.” His voice softens. “But I have so many questions.”