"I know."
I stop, turn to face him. "No, you don't. You don't know anything. How can you possibly know what it feels like from this side, Asher? For five years, you've gotten to pry into every moment of my life, to see every secret, every second. I didn'thave that luxury. When I needed you, when I wanted to hear your voice, see your face, or fight with you just to feel alive, I didn't get to do that. But you did. All you had to do was pick up your fucking phone, and you got to see me, live and in living color. I had to exist on memories and dreams."
I don't know why I'm so upset, but I am. Maybe because those memories and dreams were never enough. Maybe because the times between our fights were too long. I don't know.
"I know what I am, Brielle," he says. "I'll never deserve you. But I want to be that man. I'm trying."
There's a desperation to the last word, a plea I've never heard from him before. I look at him—really look. He's thinner than I remember, almost like he's been slowly fading away, too.
"I know," I say, softer than I mean to. "You look like shit."
He shrugs, a shadow of his usual arrogance. "Rehab will do that to you."
"You actually went?"
He nods. "I spent two weeks inpatient."
"For drinking?"
"For…everything."
The words hang between us, heavy and complicated.
"Did it help?" I ask.
He laughs, a short, painful sound. "No. Not really."
I move closer, needing to see the truth in his eyes. "Then why do it?"
He looks up, and for once, he doesn't try to hide from me. "Because I needed help. Because I've fucked up so much, and I didn't know how to stop. Because I don't want to be this anymore."
I lean on the edge of his desk, close enough to touch him if I wanted.
"I've hurt you over and over," he says, his voice so quiet I have to strain to hear. "I don't want to be that man anymore, Brielle. I can't be him anymore. Not and survive it."
His hands shake, just a little.
"You want to die," I say, a piece of my soul breaking at the thought.
"I wanted to," he admits, his eyes falling closed, as if the admission shames him. "The minute you walked out, I wanted to end it. Dying was easier than breathing in a world where you hated me. But I made a promise to myself five years ago that so long as you were breathing, I'd keep breathing, too. I owed you that much."
The tears come, sudden and hot. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, choking on a sob.
He doesn't move, doesn't reach for me, doesn't try to fix it. He just waits, letting the silence grow.
"Five years," I whisper when I've got myself under control enough to speak. "You were there the whole time."
He nods. "Every day."
I wipe my face, looking at him through the blur.
"Do you regret it?" I ask, wanting to hear him lie, needing him to say that it was all a mistake, that he could have lived without me.
He meets my gaze, his as steady as ever. "Not for a second. I've never regretted a single second of loving you."
I believe him. I wish I didn't, but I do.
"I don't know how to forgive you," I say, my voice breaking.
