Thirty~one

Present~Her

Now, in the strained silence, his jaw is tight, his brows furrowed, his lips pulled into a thin, unforgiving line. That telltale tick near his eye gives him away. Patrick always does that when he’s trying to keep his anger in check. And right now, he’s barely managing it.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have left. He has every right to walk away, every right to hate me. Now, we sit at Betty’s Diner, across from each other in a worn-out booth. The place is nearly empty, just the two of us and the low hum of the jukebox in the corner. Patrick hasn’t said much since we sat down. He stares out the window, his leg bouncing with restless energy. Every so often, his hands rake through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration.

Then, he shifts, and his collar dips, revealing the scar behind his ear. My stomach twists. I remember noticing it years ago, when I ran my fingers over the rough skin.

Now, I just watch him. He’s broader, more defined, the angles of his jaw