"I hate you."
My voice is barely a whisper.
"I hate you."
I'm louder, clearer, more certain.
"I hate you."
I'm shaking.
"I hate you."
I'm yelling.
There's no response.
Those three words keep rolling off my lips over and over again. I'm ready to keep saying them until I scream myself hoarse. I can't stop myself from saying them, even though I know the opposite is true. I could never hate him. Maybe I think that by verbalizing it so much I'll be able to. I wish I could. I wish I never had to see his face again. I wish I could wring his neck with that stupid scarf and walk away forever.
He doesn't say anything. He just stands there and takes it. Why doesn't he say something? Do something? Why doesn't he shout that he hates me too? Why doesn't he cry, or even frown?
I hate when he does this.
It's hurting him. I'm hurting him, I know I am. I'm the only one who can hurt him like this. Why can't he just show me something, some small, raw part of himself? Why does he have to make like nothing affects him? I'm throwing my entire being at him in this moment. I feel naked, vulnerable in front of him. I always feel like that in front of him. His eyes all over me, mind whirring, ripping me apart inch by inch. It's strange to experience that sensation after so long.
Why can't he just show me a little pain? It hits me how hurt he probably is. I'm sitting here shouting at him how much I hate him, but he has to know I don't mean it. He always knows everything. He probably hates himself.
I become aware that I'm not screaming anymore. I'm just standing there. We're both just standing here. Maybe I'm the only one standing here. It wouldn't be the first time I conjured him up from nothing.
Tentatively, I step closer to him. I nervously place a hand to his chest. I can feel him breathing. Once I'm convinced he's tangible, my hand curls into a fist and I'm pounding it into his shoulder.
One more time.
"I hate you."
Before either of us know what's happening, I'm embracing him. I have never needed to feel someone this badly before. I just need to know he's there, that he's real, that's he's not going to disappear as soon as I snap back to reality.
He doesn't reciprocate the embrace. I don't care. I don't care if this contact is uncomfortable for him. I don't care if he's put off by the fact that my hands are all over him; his back, his arms, his hair. I don't care what kind of impression he's getting of me trying to take in his scent, something that has become incredibly foreign to me. I'm trying to memorize him, to refresh the memory that has become severely faded. I'm still trying to prove to myself that this isn't a memory. I think I am crying.
I don't care what he thinks. I am selfish.
"You bastard." My voice cracks. I am crying. I can't stop it, and I don't try.
He still stands there, saying nothing, doing nothing. You bastard. You complete bastard. Feel something.
"Why, Sherlock? Why did you make me watch it? I can't—," I don't know what I'm saying anymore and my throat is so tight I couldn't if I did.
To my surprise he heaves, and I'm not sure anymore if the wetness on his scarf is from me or him.
"Why…"
I can tell he's opened his mouth to say something, but he doesn't. I don't think he can. What are you supposed to say in a moment like this?
Instead, I feel his hands fly to the back of my neck, through my hair, down my back. He's holding me so tight it's restricting my already ragged breathing. I hear his choked breath in my ear.
He doesn't need to say anything. I don't either. This is us telling each other everything we wish we would've. It's me telling him the three words I didn't say to him today.
I don't think he's ever going to let me go.
I'm not going to let him go either.