I can't sleep. This isn't news; I don't think I've had a good night's sleep in twenty years. But still.

I pace the apartment, which is actually quite a distance when it comes down to it. The penthouse is practically bare, and I think that my nightly pacing probably burns more calories than my morning runs. Not that it matters much, anyway. Even if I was supermodel-skinny, I would still be ugly, and no one would ever love me. She made me ugly, all those years ago. I see it every morning, when I change into my work clothes and try not to glimpse my reflection in the mirror. I can't bear to see the deadened look in my own eyes, or the scars that still mar my fair skin. She wanted to hurt me, and she did. I'll never forget what she did to me.

That was the point.

She said no one else would ever love me, that I wasn't good enough, that she was the only one for me. I know in my head, from what I've seen in my line of work, that she hurt me and she lied, that she chose me because I was easy to control, because I was younger, weaker, questioning my sexuality. That made me easy prey.

But some people deserve to be hurt. Maybe I was one of those people. Maybe I still am.

What I did was wrong. But then, when I see Olivia out, laughing with one girl or another, it doesn't seem so wrong for her. We are the same, but she is perfectly at ease with herself, with her sexuality. She wouldn't understand my shame.

But even if I have feelings for her, she could never have feelings for me. She could never love me.

Or am I just worried that I could never love her back? That I'd be too afraid to?

A few weeks later, she asks me out. I can tell that this time, it's different. It's not a meal between friends, but an actual date. There's a flash of insecurity ghosting across her features, an expression I've never before seen on Olivia's face. And it scares me.

"I'm straight," I tell her, as if it'll be true if I say it enough times.

"But I thought –"

"It was a mistake." In more ways than one. I'm not sure if we're talking about the same thing anymore, but we might be. Then again, we might not be.

"Okay." I see the way her shoulders droop as she turns to walk away. I want to call her back, but I can't. The words stick in my throat.

I wonder if I'm pretending to be straight because I want to be, because I actually believe it's wrong, or simply because I need to be. Self-preservation is a survival instinct, and I can't take any more pain.

Olivia mostly avoids me after that, though whether it's out of embarrassment or disappointment, or even confusion, is anyone's guess. Me, I can hardly bring myself to meet her eyes either, but then, I can hardly bring myself to meet anyone's eyes. She's the only one who's tried to help me, the only one who seems to care, and I've pushed her away.

A self-fulfilling prophecy.

I haven't prayed in years, but now I do, every night before bed. I get down on my knees, wincing at the memory of the scars still there, the scars she put there, and I pray that Olivia will find it somewhere in her heart to forgive me.

For what, I don't know.

Olivia knocks on the door to my office one day, and when I tell her to come in, she stands awkwardly in the doorway, clearly unsure how close she can come without invading my space. She clears her throat. "I have the file you asked for."

"The Dobbins file?" She nods. "Thank you, Olivia." I'm careful now. I won't call her Liv again. I measure my words, and make sure each is the exact one I want to say.

This is how it must be.

She takes a deep breath. "Alex, I'm sorry if I offended you, by asking you to come out with me. Maybe I misread you. But I do want to be friends. If that's okay with you."

It is, but it isn't. I can't let her get close. So I shake my head, and when she leaves, looking more dejected than ever, I lay my head down on my desk and wonder where I went wrong.

I don't cry, though. I don't cry.

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