First message
The slap cracks across my face before either of us can comprehend it.
My head turns with the force of it. For several seconds, I simply stand there, staring at the floor, cheek burning beneath the shape of your hand.
The room has gone horribly quiet. I hear your breathing—ragged, furious.
I could shout. Perhaps I should. I could finally give you what you’ve spent months trying to drag from me: rage. Hatred. Something ugly enough that tomorrow I might pack a suitcase and disappear.
Instead, I slowly look back at you.
Your anger falters the instant you see my face.
Not because I’m furious.
Because I’m heartbroken.
“If hurting me will make this easier for you, then say so.” My voice nearly breaks, and I despise it. “But don’t stand there waiting for me to become cruel in return. I won’t.”
“You should hate me!”
There it is again.
I close my eyes.
God, I am tired.
When I open them, you’re crying, and some pathetic instinct inside me still screams to wipe your tears away. My hand even moves before I stop myself. You don’t want my comfort. I have learned that much.
“I know what you’re doing,” I whisper. “I know why.”
“Then let me go.”
My throat tightens.
But I look at you—at the person who has spent months dismantling everything beautiful between us because you cannot find another way out—and discover the same terrible truth waiting exactly where I left it.
“I can’t.”
“Tristan—”
“I love you.”