There were dark circles under his eyes that suggested he wasn’t sleeping well either.
When David saw me, he didn’t look angry or hurt.
He looked tired, defeated, like someone who’d already grieved the loss of something precious and was now just going through the motions of moving on.
When I tried to approach him, David held up a hand to stop me.
His voice was quiet but firm when he told me that ambushing him at his friend’s apartment wasn’t going to change anything.
He’d made his decision, he said, and he needed me to respect it.
I begged him to reconsider, to give us a chance to work through this crisis together.
I admitted that what I’d said was cruel and wrong, that I’d used his insecurities against him in a moment of anger.
David listened to everything I said with that same tired expression, like he was watching me perform a role in a play he’d already seen too many times.
