but saying it would only hurt him more.
And I can’t stand seeing him hurt at all.
I can’t lie to him either.
“We had a deal,” I say, burying the truth in a coffin carved by indifference.
His eyes narrow, a trigger half-pulled, hurt pressing up against the silence as we stare at each other.
“So that’s it?” He nods, shocked,
a half-laugh, half-breath escaping him.
“I’m just a good story you’re never gonna tell nobody?”
“You’ll get over it,” I say.
And I hate myself the second I say it.
His eyes flash to mine,
the four words striking him.
Then he repeats it,“You’ll get over it.”
Deadpan, hollow,
eyes bouncing between mine,
searching for a piece of me
that still wants this.
“Jesus. You’ve got the whole thing figured out. Already rewriting this night in your head, huh? The lies you’ll tell yourself to believe none of this was real. That this didn’t fuck you up too.”
I know if I leave, it’ll hurt him.
But if I stay?—
I’ll hurt him again.
And again.
And again.
And…
I slip my hand away from his.
As if it’s still mine.
But it doesn’t feel like mine.
Not anymore.
I’m searching for my purse,
then remember not bringing bring one.
