your heart I couldn't win [x]

It's my turn. I can feel Liam's gaze on me, maybe on my face, maybe on my ribs, maybe on my fingers that won't stop moving. I'm making typing motions on my hipbones, but words don't appear. I'm not thinking of any. I'm thinking of the cracks in the plaster on the ceiling, the slight breeze from the open window, the time.

"Becca?"

"I have a word document that's just a list of reasons not to kill myself."

I listen for the grind of his teeth, the click of a swallow, something that indicates his surprise, but: "Am I on it?"

I blink, not turning. I want to tear his hair out, but I settle for digging my nails into the mattress. The sheets are cool under my fingertips. I want to grab his hand.

"Hey. Am I on it?"

"Hmm." 

"I should be."

"You should say 'fuck' more." I've memorized the way his mouth frames it, his teeth flicking over his lower lip, mouth hanging slightly open after k. He always puts a little too much emphasis on the word, like he's 12 and he doesn't know how to use it casually yet. "It's your turn."

I hear the creak in his chair, wood on wood (scratches on the floor), like he's leaning forward. "How many things were on this list?"

"It's your turn." I'm not insisting- I don't have to speak if he doesn't. I turn my head deliberately to the left.

"Hmph," he says, noncommittal. I have to stop myself from smiling, so I bite the inside of my cheek instead, hard. "I smoke."

I sigh. I consider not answering for a moment, worrying the new cut in my mouth with my tongue, but he's playing the game wrong. "No shit."

The outside window ledge is littered with cigarette butts. Most of them are Liam's, but one of them we shared. Our DNA mixed. Our lips touched by proxy.

"No, I mean, before this. Like, I- chronically." I look around at him before I can stop myself. He's not quite frowning. His brow is furrowed, but his lips are neutral. They quirk up in greeting at me.

I sit up, cross-legged. "Yeah, no shit. Your nails are turning yellow. Six things."

His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks at his hands. His mouth opens and closes a few times, false starts. "Yellow?"

"It's called tar staining. I looked it up."

Liam, still examining his cuticles, quirks his mouth up ever so slightly. "You looked it up. Ah. How sweet of you."

I can still taste blood. "Sure."

"Am I on your list?"

"You were." Not technically a lie, but I can't meet his eyes when I say it, eyes flitting from his shoulder, to the window, to my non-yellow nails. I rub my thumb against each finger, Liam's stare hot on my face. "Does that count as my secret?"