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When you wake up, you're pretty sure that you've overdosed.
It's like you can't breathe; you're suffocating.
The common theme you've discovered when waking up next to her is that she likes to cuddle. She really likes to cuddle and you're a little unsure if she's like that with everyone, if she's unknowingly seeking comfort as she sleeps, or if she is using sharing a bed as an excuse to wriggle a little closer to you. As much as you crave the closeness, it's becoming almost unbearable.
The nagging tiredness is definitely present as you rub your eyes free of its clutches when you feel her body begin to move and stretch and for a moment she's a mere inch away. You suck in a breath in a feeble attempt to put some distance between you. It doesn't work because she grapples for you and tightens her grip and kisses you good morning before bunking back down to sleep.
She kissed you. And she didn't even realise it.
It scares you more than the idea of witch hunters looking to kill you.
You had to get out of there. But a knock on the door from her mother stops you before you can hide so you do the first logical thing you can think of: you pretend to be asleep. You can hear the footsteps of heeled boots on the wooden floor stop abruptly on their way into the room, and the sudden ending of a sentence that referred to last minute funeral arrangements. Henry's funeral was on Sunday, and that was tomorrow.
There is a beat where there is no movement, not a sound in the room aside from the breathing sounds coming from the girl next to you, and you're pretty sure that you've been busted.
Until her mother turns almost silently and leaves the room. You still can't breathe. It's getting too hot.
She's still asleep when you free yourself from her with growing frustration because the covers tangled around your legs refuse to let you out. A car engine roars in the driveway, before humming off on its way down the street. The two of you were alone.
You didn't have a problem with girls liking girls, you considered yourself to be rather open minded about everything. What you were having trouble understanding was the feelings you were having for another girl, so soon after the end of a four year relationship with a guy.
You grab your shoes on the way and all but run out, and you're sure that you can hear her mumbling your name by the time you reach the stairs, followed by some rustling of bed covers and a louder, raspy voice.
"Diana?"
By the time you reach your car half a dozen houses down, her desperate calls are ringing in your ears.
How were you supposed to face her at the funeral after running out in a nervous huff?
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