"What's wrong?"
Why are you asking me that? Since when have I ever deserved anything from you, anything close to those simple words? You honestly don't know how much you affect me, Kurt. I'm all messed up because of you, but I don't blame you for it like I used to.
Because you…
You understand me more than I thought. You're looking at me with concern – imagine that, the bullied worried about the bully – and you're asking me as simply as if we were friends, 'What's wrong?' and indirectly, 'Can I help?' because you see my pain.
Ha, imagine that, too: you can see through me as if I were made of glass. And maybe I am. Because I'm crying. Shit, I'm fucking crying. In the middle of the hallway. People might see, might hear us, but… but all I see is you. You're the only thing here right now.
God, I'm so…
"I'm so… I'm so fucking sorry, Kurt," and I hate how my voice betrays me, breaking when I say your name, because you affect me more than you will ever know. All I want is your forgiveness, your approval, your acceptance. I never thought I did, and I never did before, but now I do. Now, it's all I can think about every time my stomach churns sickeningly and my mouth tastes bitter with tears as I look at that damn stolen cake topper, still in my room, hidden away from my dad's eyes. "I'm so sorry about what I did to you."
Because I was the worst. I hurt you because I was afraid of how you affected me. And, truthfully, I was miserable just like you said, and I still am, and I do torture myself – even now, I'm shoving my self up against the lockers like I used to do to you, because I deserve it, and I know it – and how can you see all that? How can you –?
"I know. I know," you say, first firmly, and then softly, leaning forward a little.
And my breath catches in my throat as relief spreads through me, a small smile on the corners of my lips.
You… know.
How can you know? I had been about to think, and there you go confirming it. Further still, you're… assuring me. You're letting me know that you don't hate me, that you are afraid of me, that you know my pain, my regret, and you accept it.
And it's all I wanted.
I snap back to myself when a girl passes by. I clear my throat, blink away my tears, and mutter, "Cool." And I want to say more, and I can see how you react to my shift in demeanor, but you have to remember, we're still at school. I have to keep up appearances. I have to remember that. "Thanks."
(I mean that 'thank you' with all of my heart, Kurt. I hope you know that, too.)
I ask for you to wait for me, but there is a double-meaning there. Yes, I'm asking you to wait inside the classroom where no one can touch you (I have to protect you; I need to, now, as both my duty from Santana and my repentance to you personally), but that isn't all of it.
I'm also asking you, truly pleading you, to wait for me. I need time, Kurt. I can't come Out like you, not yet. I can't.
But I want to.
(For you. For your sake. To shut you up about it, to ease my guilt, to end my suffering… I don't know which. Maybe a bit of all of it. Just… anything, anything, because, truthfully, peer pressure gets to me, but you, Kurt, affect me the most.)
