“That usually happens when someone doesn’t want to talk to you.”
For a second, he just looks at me. The wind cuts through the space between us. His fingers tighten around the bag.
“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”
The parking lot feels too wide open, too bright, like every ugly thing between us is suddenly on display.
George doesn’t really do apologies, not when it would mean admitting there’s something he can’t undo. And that’s making it worse, like the words are less a gift and more a crack opening in something that was already held together by force alone.
I wait for the rest—any excuse, defense, or carefully worded reason that would make me hate him a little less.
It never comes.
“I was wrong,” he roughly says. The hurt in his eyes is unmistakable.
Something ugly and painful twists hard in my chest.
“I know you’re angry.”
“I don’t think you know me anymore.” I almost don’t have the strength to even say the words.
His expression finally cracks at that. There it is—the first real bleed.
“I know enough,” he says, his eyes starting to well up, but he keeps going. “I know you still skip meals when you’re exhausted. I know you work too many night shifts back-to-back when you’re upset because you think if you stop moving, you’ll fall apart.”
I go completely still.
“You don’t get to stand here and say that to me,” I whisper, the anger barely holding the rest of it back.
George’s eyes fill for one terrible second before he looks away.
“That’s the problem,” he says, voice breaking. “I did know you, better than anyone. And I still hurt you anyway.”
I hate how much those words soften something inside me. I hate it so much I want to scream.
“You looked at everything we had and decided it wasn’t enough for me to stay.”
George flinches like I slapped him.
“What are you even doing here in Seattle?” I ask, voice cracking anyway, no matter how hard I try to clamp it down. “You think cooking one meal and bringing me coffee at work like it’s some throwback to the old days fixes anything?”
“No,” he says immediately, his voice breaks on the word.
“Then what’s the fucking point of you doing all this?”
He looks at me then—fully. No walls left.
“Because every single day since you left,” he says, “I’ve had to live with the fact that I’m the reason you look at me like this now. And that’s okay. I accept that. I just want you…to eat.”
My throat burns. A tear slips free before I can stop it. I wipe it away viciously.
“Made some spicy beef noodle soup,” he says after a long silence, almost like he hates himself for it. “Extra chili oil—the way you like it after rough shifts.”
The memory crashes into me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
Half-past seven in the morning at George’s tiny kitchen. He was half-asleep, shoving a steaming bowl into my hands because I’d been too busy that night at work I couldn’t even have a break to eat. Muttering at me for living on just caffeine. Pressing a kiss to my temple while I stood there leaning against the counter, devouring his noodle soup like a man who hadn’t eaten in days—no manners or restraint, just pure gratitude with every sloppy bite.
Home.
