Marissa feels like a vacuum. Like a dizzying void with no air. Ryan can't breathe when he's around her, and for a little while that's okay. For a little while holding his breath is exhilarating, but after that it's tiring and the effort begins to make him feel sick. It takes so much effort to keep up with her. Marissa lives on a pedestal, way up high, and Ryan is expected to climb it, to stay in tow so that he can hold her hand.. because she's afraid of heights. Or at least the figurative ones.
He doesn't want to be her constant mentor, or her doctor. Ryan knows all about substitution, he's been the second string almost his whole life, and with Marissa he doesn't want to be that. He doesn't want to be just another addiction to replace the cheap vodka and menthol cigarettes. He doesn't want to be there for her solely because her family are not.
Sometimes Ryan thinks that she loves him for him, but most of the time he figures that she loves him because he loves her. Because he doesn't try to climb out of her window while she's sleeping, because he's still there in the morning. But truth be told it takes all he has not to sneak out, out the back door for some fresh air and nicotine.
And occasionally he does, minds the empty bottles, and comes back afterwards so she'll be none the wiser. She wakes up and he thinks that she might know, but if she does she doesn't complain because Marissa is sneaky and smoked-out herself. She'll hide the empties as he tries to catch up on some rest for the brief time that she's standing still. And then the sun rises and she's on the move again, and he's on the move again.
Ryan can't say that he's not bitter about being a substitute, and during the day he wishes he had the strength left to confront Marissa. But in the evening when dusk sweeps over, cool and dry and her kisses taste like melted menthol cigarettes and tequila he hopes that she never finds what she's really looking for.
He doesn't want to be her constant mentor, or her doctor. Ryan knows all about substitution, he's been the second string almost his whole life, and with Marissa he doesn't want to be that. He doesn't want to be just another addiction to replace the cheap vodka and menthol cigarettes. He doesn't want to be there for her solely because her family are not.
Sometimes Ryan thinks that she loves him for him, but most of the time he figures that she loves him because he loves her. Because he doesn't try to climb out of her window while she's sleeping, because he's still there in the morning. But truth be told it takes all he has not to sneak out, out the back door for some fresh air and nicotine.
And occasionally he does, minds the empty bottles, and comes back afterwards so she'll be none the wiser. She wakes up and he thinks that she might know, but if she does she doesn't complain because Marissa is sneaky and smoked-out herself. She'll hide the empties as he tries to catch up on some rest for the brief time that she's standing still. And then the sun rises and she's on the move again, and he's on the move again.
Ryan can't say that he's not bitter about being a substitute, and during the day he wishes he had the strength left to confront Marissa. But in the evening when dusk sweeps over, cool and dry and her kisses taste like melted menthol cigarettes and tequila he hopes that she never finds what she's really looking for.