open hearts

I know you don't wanna turn me into your puppet

There are a million excuses, and to Jude that's all they are. Excuses.

Jude has never had a good poker face, and the hurt is plainly evident as he stares down at her, standing there with her on the stoop like an idiot. Fixing absolutely nothing. Had he ever? Had she ever entrusted him with any hurt worse than an ache?

"Is that what you think of me? That I'd see you differently, or judge you?" The quiet ache in his voice rings contrastingly loud in the silence of the end of her words. "How is that any better?" If she'd said something to the effect of only not wanting to worry him maybe he would have understood. In reality, it's a common sentiment from someone with anxiety, but Jude can only feel the hurt of presumed distrust.

Looking into her grey eyes he is at an utter loss. "How am I supposed to know what to ask even if I wanted to? I never could have guessed this." What else is she hiding? And how is it fair to put it on him to ask, when he has no heading or direction as to what he should be asking?

But what if I just always dance around on your string?

Jude