He's smoke.

Smoke in front of me. Stealth, soft and grey and fading with every gust, every breeze, every slight change. I could reach out to touch him, grab him, but he's kind of like the last level of my video game; a beautiful concept, but impossible to reach.

I don't allow myself to feel. It's basic survival 101; my first rule. Allowing yourself to feel is like signing up for destruction. Emotions are self-destruct buttons. I've never pressed mine.

Before him.
At first, I wanted to hurt him. Kill him. Tear him. I wanted some way to get across the pain and desperation he caused me. Now, I'm more of a prisoner. I accept my fate, but I do so in a protest. I'd rather kick and scream then give in. (That's my second rule.)

I never cry.

I remind myself, every day. 'He's not on your side.'

But god…

When he pulls my body into his arms, and kisses me, in his aggressive, awkward, almost painful, yet almost compassionate Irken way… It's hard to remember that he's smoke, or my rules, (or my name). It's hard to hate him. And it's even harder to convince myself that somewhere, deep down inside his Alien mind, we're not on sides, but stuck somewhere in the middle together.