Chapter 6

"Dylan," I interrupted him, "hold me."

He paused in disbelief.

"Hold me," I repeated.

Warm arms enveloped me, holding tighter and tighter.

I could feel the hands embracing me trembling slightly.

Seven years ago, Dylan had waited on the coastal road with a bouquet of roses, his heart full of joy.

From dawn to dusk, he waited, but I never came.

The day I rejected Dylan, he asked me with reddened eyes, "Really, you don't like me at all?"

I shook my head.

No matter how he pleaded, I never once looked back.

The weight on my shoulders was too heavy then; I couldn't bear to look him in the eyes.

But now, with his warm breath on my ear, the weight seemed to lift.

Late at night, I sat with Dylan on the hotel carpet, drinking to our heart's content.

After several rounds, he was tipsy, his cheeks flushed, his gaze unfocused.

I got up to fiddle with the TV, putting on some music.

When I sat back down, he silently moved closer to me.

Our distance became just a finger's width apart.