He shakes his head. “Do you think saying sorry fixes it?”
“No.”
“Then why bother?”
“It’s true.”
He studies me for a long time, like he’s trying to find the man he used to love inside the one sitting across from him. Maybe he regrets inviting me to Dublin. Maybe he hopes I’ll walk out the door and never look back.
Maybe he’s daring me to stay.
“I hated you for givin’ up on us,” he says finally.
“I know.”
He swallows. “Still do, some days.”
“Ideserve it.”
He nods. “Aye. You do.”
We sit there for another prolonged silence. Two ghosts in a city filled with history and war and heartbreak far worse than ours. I don’t know what I thought this would be. Closure? Forgiveness? Maybe I wanted proof he and I were once real.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I did,” I insist. “You invited me.”
“Curiosity isn’t the same as closure.” He bites his lip, probably to avoid saying more.
I call his bluff. “Well, then, why did you text?”
He holds my gaze for a long time, something shifts behind his expression.
Hurt. Longing. Restraint.
“I wanted to see if there’s anything left.”
“And?” My blood pressure spikes.
He arches an eyebrow. “Still figurin’ it out.”
We both laugh under our breath. It’s not funny, but it’s real.
“I’ve missed this,” I admit.
He looks down. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
This earns me the faintest smile. Gone before I can memorize it.
Outside, the rain gets heavier. Inside, it feels like we’re both teetering at the edge of something we never finished. Neither of us moves to leave. Neither of us asks for more coffee.
We sit here in a buffalo stance. Two versions of the same wound.
I shouldn’t have come.
But, realistically, I never had a choice
