Take it on faith...

You have the right -- the responsibility -- to say whatever you're thinking to me.  We lose this the second we compromise on the full-disclosure thing.  I mean that.  Even if my butt looks big in these jeans.

Did you change my mood intentionally?  Did you think before you acted?  Considering the contact we had just pulled away from, did you think that one achingly tender thing would make such a difference?  The fact that it's still a switch with me tells you the number of opportunities I've had to build-up a resistance.  It's like you saying my name -- nobody says my  name.  Not unless they're trying to get my attention.  You say my name like a curse -- or a prayer.  It will always be uncomfortable.  It will always be perfect.

Avoiding you has worked so well in the past, I don't know how I could resist it.  :)  In a town this size, deciding to limit my contact with you -- ending it isn't really an option -- only leads to frustration and levels of emotion I am ill-equipped to handle.  I will see you, and it will be messy.  Likely inside and out.  It's safer for me to decide we're going to handle this like adults and discuss where it's going instead of stupidly leaving it up to our hormones.

Okay.  Now the big one.  What do I want?  I want to be happy.  I want my life to have some sort of stability.  I have some awful discussions in my near future -- not with you.  But, I'm getting there.  Trying to use my words.  Always re-assessing to see if I'm requiring too much.  Trying to express that I thrive with some level of neglect.

And what do I get from you?  Pretty much what you get from me.  You listen. You bring me joy.  You expect nothing from me, and I expect nothing from you.  The great pleasure of this illicit situation is that neither one of us can make demands of the other.  We have no right.  You can't tell me when to be home and I can't nag you to feed the dog.  In a sense, our other responsibilities mean we are unable to commit to each other in any way that isn't completely voluntary.

I volunteered for this -- confusion and heartache and high school and all.  I can't help who I love, no, but every time I see you or talk to you or touch you or write here, I'm volunteering for the complication.  The situation is complex, the stuff between us is simple.  And it's part of what I want.