He doesn’t move a muscle except for his eyes that follow her path as though somehow he can see her contrails. His whole existence revolves around a girl who left his orbit, and he was the one who spun her off her axis.
If only I could handle my problems like a video-game style battle against a boss. But there are no power-ups in real life. No FTW moment when I can declare total pwnage. I don’t even know who the bad guys are.
The cold reality of what he is ― what I am ― sets in like cement and our former selves have been buried and smothered to death beneath the thick concrete of our separate fates.
He makes it sound so Zen. Or Jedi. Like some kind of Wolf Yoda. There is no try. And maybe that’s all there is to it. Don’t over-think the shift. Just embrace the form that I want to be in.
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence in which I contemplate what might happen next. Maybe like the villain in a movie, this is where she gives me a long spiel about her hard-up life before she kills me. Not that I totally believe she’s nefarious...
Among wilderness survival tips, punching a wild animal in the face probably isn’t on a checklist.
To them he’s the slightly less frightening alternative to the grim reaper.
I'm some sort of guinea pig in a home economics crash course for werewolves.
