Outcast ✧ Phan

Fifteen

stop
verb
(of an event, action, or process) come to an end; cease to happen.

I had settled it, faced the facts with as much unsettling sureness possible, coming up with two things in conclusion: one, I was in love with Phil Lester. Two, it sucked.

Alright, so maybe love would be leaning a bit heavy on the over exaggerated side. But I did know, actually for sure this time, that what I felt toward the black haired boy that was Phillip was far from casual friendliness. Unless, of course, "casual friendliness" included vivid daydreams of make-out sessions and other unworldly scenes in its categorization.

I don't know what tipped me over the edge, what sent me plummeting full scale into the pits of harsh realization, honestly. It could've been when he kissed me on the cheek all those weeks ago, or maybe the endless cuddling and hand holding that followed.

Probably both.

Phil had moved in with his nan, which, to both his and my own relief, seemed to have boosted his spirits grandly. I've began taking trips over with him to spend the night (bringing back into light the cuddles during so).

It was a rather new thing to both of us, sleeping over and all, but I'd like to say it was not, probably the opposite if anything, unpleasant. Neither of our houses have ever been well fit for spending the night for obvious reasons before, but Phil's move seemed to have branched out quite the few new opportunities between us (aforementioned cuddle sessions and hand holding, ect ect).

Then there was the downside to it all. The part that made it "suck".

Yes, because every good thing must have a tiny flaw. A fault, a deformity. In my case, it would be the guilt.

The guilt of everything was slowly gnawing me from the inside-out, like a pesky little parasite. To top off the usual whole "dragging everybody down" bunk, a new layer, fresh and flaming, of guilt had woken.

Like I had said before (quite a few times, really), friendship was a risky game. But with the prospect of a crush or even, as I had let the word slip, love?

I was like a bomb; bound to blow those foolish enough to tread near into a lot of bloody smitherines.

But I did have a choice. There was always a choice. I could (a) tell Phil about my powers, or I could (b) snip our corded bonds before he finds out on his own.

Naturally, I, being the insatiable little twat I am, preferred neither. The latter (b) would obviously suck, and would most likely hurt the both of us, but it wouldn't be like I hadn't seen it coming.

And then (a) telling Phil. Mathematically speaking, there's probably like a 5% chance he wouldn't freak out at all. Maybe a 45% chance he would hate my guts for lying. About a 40% chance he would be completely terrified of me. And the other 10% left with some other reaction I haven't yet imaged.

But then again, I've never been good at math either.

I was sitting in Phil's room with him, on the floor and playing mario kart. He was firmly kicking my ass at the game, but I was too busy hovering around in the depths of my thoughts to care properly.

The sun was filtering in and reflecting on his bed-mussed black hair. We had only waken up not too long ago, near sporting a brilliant ending to yet another sleepover. His eyes were guttered with concentration, the natural light bringing out the golds and greens in the otherwise blue irises as he took another turn and across the finish line. The game console emitted the familiar level ending song, Phil's character flagged with first place.

Only when he let out a whoop of victory did I realize I had been staring. I turned back to the tv, face flushing pink. It was a wonder how I managed to cross the finish line myself, given I hadn't even been watching the screen. And not only did I finish, I scored fifth place, too.