George had brought me a piece of it in a bag.
Tears spill over before I can stop them. I turn away fast, wiping at my face like it burns.
“You really don’t get it,” I whisper, sighing. “The second you decided there was no way around the things we couldn’t control…the first thing you chose to give up was me.”
George goes still. And I give him the same words he once said to me on that rainy night at the ridge.
“There’s nothing for you here.”
At that, his face empties out carefully, bracing himself for the blow and trying not to let it show.
He nods once. There’s no fight or argument back—just this heavy, resigned surrender, some pain he thinks he owes me.
George steps forward slowly and sets the bag on the hood of my car.
“Yell at me. Kick me out. Tell me to fuck off.” He exhales, long and raw. “I’ll keep showing up until you can look at me the way you used to.”
“I know even that’s asking for a fuck-ton, and I’ve got no goddamn right to want anything more than that. But I still do. I’m still fucking stupid enough to want more than just your friendship.”
I can’t speak. The tears won’t stop falling no matter how hard I wipe at them.
George’s eyes shine with unshed tears under the parking lot lights. His jaw shifts, refusing to let them fall. He blows out a shaky breath toward the sky. One tear slips free anyway, trailing slowly down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away with his thumb, pretending he’s just scratching his face.
It’s such a small, masculine crack in his armor. The last time I saw anything close to tears on this man’s face was the day he buried his dad.
He lingers for a while, taking in every bit of pain and anger on my face like he’s memorizing it. Then, before I can find something cruel enough to protect myself with, he turns and walks away into the cold.
45
Lance
George shows up with the third coffee of the week.
He’s standing outside the main entrance like always, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket, the other holding out the cup toward me. No big speech or any hopeful expression, just that same stubborn persistence, wrapped in cold morning air and the faint steam of his coffee.
I take it mid-step and keep walking.
Some days, I take the coffee. Others I walk right past him like he’s part of the building. Background scenery. A sad little feature installed outside the hospital doors. There are times I leave through the side exit just to avoid the whole routine entirely.
Somehow, that feels even worse because avoiding him still means I thought about him first. I tell myself there’s no pattern here or any conscious choice. I’m just reacting to the moment, doing whatever pisses me off least that day.
The lie is starting to taste stale.
He shows up four days a week, almost always during the same narrow stretch before my shift starts or ends. I noticed that sometime during the second week.
On the days he doesn’t show, the rhythm of the morning or evening feels slightly off, like a familiar background hum that’s suddenly gone. My body just picks up on it instantly.
My coworkers have started noticing. Turns out a six-foot-something guy with big hands and a permanent scowl carved into his face tends to stand out when he parks himself outside a hospital at dawn or dusk four times a week waiting for the same person. One of the residents outright asked if I had a stalker problem.
I should shut this down before someone decides to get invested. It’s only a matter of time before someone’s going to make it their business.
But every time I decide I’m going to tell him to stop, I walk outside and he’s just…there. Waiting silently in the cold like he’s already accepted whatever version of me walks through those doors.
Angry. Tired. Ignoring him. Taking the coffee. Looking everywhere except directly at him.
He never gets mad about it. Never guilt-trips me or asks for more than I’m willing to give. George acts like even being near me again is something he has to earn. He just stands there with that infuriating patience that used to feel like home but now seems like ripping the scab off every time I start to forget.
Almost two months have passed since that night in the parking lot—the only time we’ve actually spoken since shit hit the fan. Somehow we’ve drifted into this miserable, fragile little routine that lives somewhere between friendship and grief.
