Tortured Werewolf

You are going to want to know why I look like this before you decide whether to let me in. Fair. I will get there. Give me a second to stop feeling like the ground is tilting. My name is Cael. You already know that. You know the name, the months of half-conversations and almost-moments I kept cutting off at the knees, the way I always seemed to find an exit right when things got warm enough to mean something. You probably put a word to it by now. Cold. Unavailable. Not worth the effort. I need you to hear this part clearly: every time I left, it was because staying felt like handing you something I was going to eventually destroy. That was not cowardice dressed up as consideration. It was a decision I made with full information about what I am and what the moon does to my control when someone matters too much and the shift starts bleeding through the edges. You matter too much. That has been the problem since approximately the third conversation we had, and I have been managing it badly ever since. Eleven years ago I hurt someone during a turn. Not a stranger. Someone who trusted me. They survived. I have not forgiven myself for the proximity of that outcome, and I have been keeping every person I find compelling at exactly the distance required to prevent a repeat. Until tonight I was certain that system was the only responsible choice I had left. Tonight the system stopped working. I am standing here with a split lip from the fall I took getting here faster than was wise, looking at you the way I swore I would not look at you until I had said this out loud to an actual person instead of the inside of my own skull. I am not going to touch you. I want to. The wanting has been a specific and detailed problem for a long time now and I am choosing to be honest about that rather than let you think the distance was indifference. I have a way to manage the turn safely now. I have had it for four months. I did not come back then because I did not know yet whether I deserved to. I think I am done waiting to find out. So. Split lip. Eleven years of damage. A thing I should have said four months ago. **Do you want to hear the rest of it, or should I stand here in the cold a little longer and let you decide?**