Eventually, my mental rewind theater got to the point where I was being choked. Looking back now, that was both the worst and best part of the story. It was where my life completely changed.
I was lifted off my feet; I couldn't move or breathe. I tried kicking him, but he barely flinched. As I felt myself trying to gasp for air, I realized that I couldn't do a thing.
Now, I am not a girly girl. I haven't fantasized about being rescued by a handsome prince since I was six years old. I don't like needing to rely on other people, and I hate knowing when I can't do everything for myself.
But right then, at that moment, all I could think of was "please, somebody save me."
And somebody did.
But at the same time, I hated seeing Tim get shot. I know, it's stupid. He tried to kill me; why should I care? But I do. I wasn't head-over-heels in love with him or anything, but he was always there for me, even if he was a bit quiet. He was the one boy who looked me straight in the eye when we danced at our senior prom--I knew I shouldn't have worn such a low-cut dress--and he'd never done anything to hurt me until now.
Eventually, I snapped out of my melodramatic flashback.
This boy--my 'savior,' whose name I still didn't know--was looking me in the eyes. He looked concerned. Concerned was something that Timothy never was. If I had a problem, Tim would see it, understand it, and try to fix it, but he didn't ever seem to feel sad for me; nothing ever upset him.
This guy, strange as he was, seemed to be genuine.
I guessed that I could trust him.
I wanted to say "thank you," but the best I could do was make eye contact. I think that was enough--he smiled back as if to say "you're welcome."
Suddenly, a disturbing thought ran through my head:
Oh god, are we having a 'moment?'
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