From here. Continued warning for relationship violence and self-harm. Also, for people who have been reading both the posts and the trigger warning notes the whole time, this is, I think, where things become more explicit.
The first time, it’s hard to see the argument starting. Which is not to say that the first time meant our first argument. Practically every other conversation we had either started out as or turned into an argument. We were okay with that; hell, we enjoyed it.
“Would you rather just turn it in with that conclusion or would you like to work out in again?” I asked just before midterms.
“If I left my paper as is,” he followed, “would that give you more time to get yours done?”
“It might,” I shrugged. “Why?”
“Because then I might get to spend more time with you… you know… socially.”
On some topics, there was room for agreement.
Even where we didn’t agree, couldn’t, it’s far, I think, to point out that we didn’t argue for the sake of arguing. We didn’t bait one another, and we didn’t play devil’s advocate.
“I would like that,” he continued, “and, if we’re being totally honest–“
“There was a time when we weren’t?” I looked at him quizzically.
“This is a new thing,” he clarified, “but it would be nice to meet somewhere other than on or near campus.”
Which was kind of a tricky situation, considering that I was bending the truth enough to my parents. To be somewhere other than where I said I was would be a deception more concrete than I could manage on short notice. “I could maybe manage something for next week.”
“Or you could just tell them.”
He sighed, sad and slow, looping an arm around my shoulders. “It’s hard. I’m not okay being a secret.”
“I don’t know what to do.” I placed one of my hands over his. “I know my parents. Realistically, the choices are present secret or past. Past us.”
He pressed his lips to my temple. “You don’t think they’d come around eventually? I’m a nice guy.”
I turned to face him inside his embrace. “Nice wouldn’t have anything to do with it, given what the numbers look like.”
“And what do the numbers look like?”
I should have heard it, the catch in his voice. I should have felt it, the brief tensing of his fingertips. I should have recognized the anger.
But I didn’t.
“Like an adult who’s interested in dating a minor.”
“So you think I’m a pervert now?” He stepped back, grabbing, taking my upper arms with him.
“I didn’t say that.” I took a step back.
He helped, shoving my shoulders with the heels of his hands.
I could describe how hard the push was or wasn’t, how far back I stumbled or not, whether it hurt or it didn’t. It doesn’t matter; it was enough.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
I turned and fled.