Adamant, adj
"You could do so much better than me," I had told you, pressing the frozen peas harder into my jaw. "You don't deserve this."
It wasn't a new thing for you to have heard; there was always someone saying it around every corner, whispering it to you when I wasn't in the room, giving us looks. Once, one of your colleagues had said it, stopping by my office for that sole purpose.
You didn't talk to her anymore.
"You're right," you said. "I don't."
I didn't know whether this was it or not. We'd been together for little more than two weeks, and this seemed like the fatal flaw, the hamartia, that would push you into leaving.
It didn't quite seem like it though. You didn't get up and go; you only continued to delicately scrap the dried and drying blood off my face with a wet flannel. Was I supposed to make a decision for you? What was there left to say to you?
"So," I said, my tongue thick and useless in my mouth, "you should leave."
"No. Shut up."
You didn't leave that night, and I thought that it was because you were still trying to prove something to everyone, to those people who told you that I was going to fuck it all up. And I did. Repeatedly. Later, a week or so after, when it happened again, you wondered why you would want anyone better than me, and I knew that we were going to be alright.
