You're not sure who to blame anymore.
You look at him, drinking in every feature and flaw on his face. You match it with the rest of his body that sits before you. He's not what you expected - which was, in short, nothing at all. To you, he had been a sentient voice. You hadn't cared what he looked like. You wondered, but you never cared. It never mattered.
But you knew this was important. You knew this revealing was special, and that you were one of the few that got to see his face. To examine it. To know.
He trusted you. This was the ultimate form of his trust. And he wanted you, too. He wanted you to know that he trusted you enough not only to ask for something more than just friendship, but also to show you who he really was.
You weren't sure what to think. Because he trusted you so deeply with a secret kept from the public eye, and heart tucked away only for the private.
And you, you barely trusted him at all. And for that, you're not sure who to blame anymore.
Your mother, for be