“I like this you.” “No, you don’t. You want to make out and sit on the same side of the table and do other normal couple things.
Because of course you do.” He didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Maybe you just don’t find me attractive?” “It’s not that,” I said. “But maybe it is.”
“It’s not. It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you or that I don’t like kissing or whatever.
I... my brain says that kissing is one of a bunch of things that will, like, kill me. Like, actually kill me.
But it’s not even about dying, really—like, if I knew I was dying, and I kissed you good-bye,”
literally my last thought wouldn’t be about the fact that I was dying; it would be about the eighty million microbes that we’d just exchanged.
I know that when you just touched me, it didn’t give me a disease, or it probably didn’t.
God, I can’t even say that it definitely didn’t because I’m so fucking scared of it.
I can’t even call it anything but it, you know? I just can’t.”
I could tell I was hurting him. I could see it in the way he kept blinking.
I could see that he didn’t understand it, that he couldn’t. I didn’t blame him. It made no sense.
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