Shatter-Me-PDF-Shatter-Me-Series-Shatter-Me-Shatter-Me-1-Tahereh-Mafi (1)

touching me and he’s not screaming he’s not dying he’s not
running away from me and I’m crying I’m choking
I’m shaking shuddering splintering into teardrops
and he’s holding me the way no one has ever held me
before.
Like he wants me.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he says, and his mouth
is moving against my hair and his hands are traveling to my
arms and I’m leaning back and he’s looking into my eyes
and I must be dreaming.
“Why—why do you—I don’t—” I’m shaking my head and
shaking because this can’t be happening and shaking off
the tears glued to my face. This can’t be real.
His eyes gentle, his smile unhinges my joints and I wish I
knew the taste of his lips. I wish I had the courage to touch
him. “I have to go,” he says. “You have to be dressed and
downstairs by eight o’clock.”
I’m drowning in his eyes and I don’t know what to say.
He peels off his shirt and I don’t know where to look.
I catch myself on the glass panel and press my eyes shut
and blink when something flutters too close. His fingers are
a moment from my face and I’m dripping burning melting in
anticipation.
“You don’t have to look away,” he says. He says it with a
small smile the size of Jupiter.
I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin I want to
savor, at the color in his eyes I’d use to paint a million
pictures. I follow the line of his jaw down his neck to the
peak of his collarbone; I memorize the sculpted hills and
valleys of his arms, the perfection of his torso. The bird on
his chest.
The bird on his chest.
A tattoo.