Page 15 of Inside the Sun

"You’re right. I shouldn’t drop by unannounced," he says gently, and something twists inside me. He’s always like this. So fucking good to me. And I’m always the same prickly bastard, like a hedgehog, all spines and no soft spots you can safely touch.

Oh, dear Fate, I wish I could respond to him with the same softness. Just once. Thank him for being endlessly patient, endlessly kind. But I can’t. Because I’m too bitter. Because I feel this gaping emptiness, this damnjealousy of him.

He sighs quietly.

"Okay, I’ll get going. But please, Sun, text me. Tell me what’s going on with you. These bad feelings I’ve had, they’re eating me up inside. Just… do it for me, alright? Please?"

I nod. "Yeah, yeah. I’ll text you, Dad."

He comes closer. He wants to hug me.

But I step back, quick.

I don’t want him to touch me, not now. Not because I’m mad, but because I know it would make me crave that special kind of warmth. That real closeness and tenderness I’ve beentrying not to need.

"Better not, Dad. I reek of sex. I need a shower."

I see the flicker of sadness in his eyes, but he respects it. He steps back and nods.

"All right, honey. Take care of yourself. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll bring it over."

"Sure. We’ll stay in touch."

He turns around, and before he leaves, he whispers, "I love you, Sun."

But I don’t react. I just can’t. I never reply. Ineveruse the wordlove. I forced myself to leave it behind.

So I just watch him go. His long platinum braid drapes down his slim back.

I get my looks from him, though mine are more statuesque, thanks to the part of DNA from my father, who used to be in a boy band and had a poster-boy face. I’m basically the best of both worlds. Maybe even a synergy of them, if I’m being honest, not modest, because why should I be?

Frowning, I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair’s darker than Dad’s, a deep, rich honey-golden shade. My eyes are the color of sunlit spring grass. Bright. Vivid.

Sometimes I hate how I look. I know life would’ve turned out differently if I didn’t look like this. Maybe I’d be in a calmer place. Free from attention. No modeling gigs. No male gaze. No empty stir.

Maybe I wouldn’t be that shitty son, that rude, ungrateful fucking brat.

I lean against the wall and slowly slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.

I press my hand to my face and now, with no one around, I can finally do what I’ve been doing more and more lately.

I cry.

I sob.

I weep.

Sometimes I do it for minutes. Sometimes for a quarter of an hour straight.

Sometimes more.

Why the fuck… why?

Why did I lose him?

I am the epitome of a cliché: I want to be loved. I want to love. I want to be vulnerable and innocent and happy and carefree, like I was with him. I want to ride a bike and never stop, want to catch the wind between my fingers, to feel the miles flying by beneath the wheels, forward, into the sun…

But then the sobs quiet.

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