Leaving

He stood up from the couch. He had been sitting too comfortably, too near her. "I don't want to do this anymore," he said, and reached for his ball cap on the coffee table.

"We can watch a different movie, dude," she said, surprised at his sudden outburst. "Where are you going?"

"No, not the movie. This," he said pointing at where he had been sitting on the couch.

She was confused. "The couch?"

"No. Nevermind. I gotta go."

She stood up and followed him as he left the living room. "What are you talking about?"

He stopped and turned suddenly. She was following so close behind that she almost bumped into him. "I'm talking about us."

"What about us?"

"Whenever I'm around you, all I want is to kiss you."

She took a step back. "I thought we agreed to just be friends."

"No, you wanted to 'just be friends' and I went along with it because I wanted to be near you. But now I see that it wasn't a good idea, because I don't want to be 'just friends,' and it's killing me every time sit next to you and smell your perfume, or give you a hug, or look into your eyes, or accidentally touch your hand. I just don't want to do it any more. I can't pretend that I'm not attracted to you." He was done with his speech. It hadn't gone exactly like he'd planned in his head. In his head he hadn't been as upset. And, of course, in his head, she had thrown herself at him half-way through. He sighed and turned towards the door.

"So, you're just leaving?" she asked.

"Unless you've got a better idea."

"I'm sorry," she said, genuinely empathetic.

He opened the door and stepped through. Before he shut it behind himself he said, "That's my line."