Obsession

Caleb

For what felt like the hundredth time today, I glanced at the photo of Jenson on my phone screen, my thumb brushing across his cheek.

Handsome Jenson.

My Jenson.

My man.

But for how long?

Each time we'd spoken on the phone, every video call, every text message ... the confession was right there, the words on the tip of my tongue.

To tell him about Thomas. About me sleeping in a bed naked with him. About what he'd done while I slept ...

My elbows dug into my bedroom desk as I leaned forward, my eyes drifting to focus on a spot on the wall.

A chill worked down my spine and I shivered, while a force weighed down on my chest, pressing ... squeezing ... suffocating ....

It was my fault. All of it. I shouldn't have gone out. I shouldn't have gotten drunk. I shouldn't have done any of it.

A tear worked its way down my cheek and I swiped at it, then gripped my phone once more, my eyes finding the photo of Jenson smiling back at me.

He wouldn't be smiling once he knew what I'd done.

Thomas swore that we didn't have sex. That all I'd actually done was sleep ... but that didn't stop the guilt from snaking around my stomach, digging into my heart, threatening to rip it right out of my chest.

Why the fuck did I even go to that party in the first place? Why the fuck did I drink? Why the fuck did I let Thomas get so close to me?

Why ...

Why ...

Why ...

Question after question ... and I had no answers to any of them. Nothing that I could explain to Jenson.

Wiping at my eyes, I stared down at the photo of Jenson once more. A photo I'd taken of him in the summer, lying in bed, his hair mussed up, his eyes heavy and sleepy, yet the biggest brightest smile on his face.

My favourite photo of all the ones I had of him.

And I had a few. My phone memory was almost full of photos of him.

Beautiful.

He was absolutely beautiful.

What we had was beautiful. And I couldn't help but think I was the one who was throwing it all away.

All because I had gotten drunk.

Again.

Fucking idiot.

Dropping my phone on my desk, I leaned back in my desk chair, lacing my hands behind my head.

Thomas had told me not to tell Jenson. Nothing had happened, so why mention it? That was his view. But each time I spoke to Jenson, every call in which I didn't say anything, each message where I didn't confess about it cut into me, like a knife slicing into my chest, piercing my heart.

It hurt.

So fucking much.

I wanted to talk to someone about it. Another opinion. Another person who could tell me if I was doing the right thing by keeping quiet because the guilt was eating at me, gnawing at my heart, threatening to rip it apart. And I couldn't breathe properly.

But who could I speak to?

I had all but kicked Thomas out of the apartment. He was currently living with Hayden in his apartment down the hall, only coming back to fetch clean clothes and books. And making sure he did it when I was out.