I wanted him to do it. How could I pretend I did not love him? He watched me with tender eyes as he continued to stroke my cheek.
His hand passed by my mouth and I bowed my head and kissed it, surprising even me. He froze, but then the room filled with laughter. It was so fake, so prominently unconvincing. His voice was still shaking, and the sound was utterly disconcerting. I stared up at him, bewildered. For a moment I thought that he was crying.
“You don’t have to do this.” I whispered, pleaded. “Just shoot me, now, and have it over. You -”
“Shut up!” he yelled, despair veiled his previously gentle expression.
I obeyed. But this gave him no comfort. He pulled away his gun and looked at it, lying across his palm. Then he turned from me and paced away. Each step matched each beat of my rapid, flailing heart.
He raised it once more, but this time I was scared, for this time it was pointing not at mine, but at his own head. ’Don’t watch,’ he said.