Better than Me
Daryl wouldn't get out of bed. God, his chest hurt and his head was filled with her. It had been a week since he'd pushed her out of his life. She needed better than him, but the guilt was strong today as he stared at the edge of the bed where she used to sleep in that white silk nightgown, her blonde hair around her like a halo. He told himself every morning he wouldn't miss her, he'd get out of bed and move on, he'd forget about her, but he couldn't. How could he forget about her?
He'd spent hours the day before reading through old love letters she'd written him, old photos they'd taken together. He spent the night reliving the day they'd gone to the mall and she'd pulled him into the dressing room with her. They'd almost gotten kicked out that day. Every night he went to bed the sheets felt colder, the mattress felt wider. God, why did he tell her to leave?
He missed everything about her. Her eyes the color of a storm raging over the ocean, they could get so intense, so shockingly bright when her emotions were running high. They were impossibly dark when he made love to her. He missed her blonde mess of curls in his face every morning when he woke up, the smell of vanilla and almonds in his nose as he breathed her in, pulling her closer just so he could hold her a little longer before he had to leave. He missed the way she tasted, always like cherries, the ripest, sweetest, juiciest ones of the summer. He knew she deserved better than him, but fuck, he just wanted her back in his arms.