“I’ll make you tea,” I say.
“I don’t want your tea.”
“Then I’ll cook.”
“I don’t want your food.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You say that every morning.”
She turns away from me again.
“Can you just—” her voice cracks and she swallows it down. “Can you just let me be miserable in peace?”
I sit on the edge of the bed anyway. “No.”
“Of course you won’t,” she lets out a hollow laugh. “You’re okay so who cares how I feel.”
I rub a hand over my face. “You think I’m okay?”
That gets her to turn to me and I notice her eyes are red. “... I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want this to happen.”
“I know.”
“I really was gonna say it that day.”
I nod once.
“I know.”
She stares at me like she wants me to argue with her. Like she wants me to defend us. To fight for the narrative that we’re worth the damage.
Instead I say nothing.
Because the truth is we both knew it would end like this.
We just hoped it wouldn’t.
“Frankie. As crazy as it sounds it needed to happen. Was the way it got out ideal? No. But if this is what had to happen for us?—”
She looks at me sharply. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t romanticise this. Don’t try to paint us in any glory. It’s not some epic love story. It’s messy, and selfish, and ugly.”
“It’s also real. Very real.”
