“You can go home,” I told him. “Just leave the car here.”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded, leaving the vehicle parked.
The building’s elevator carried me up to Micheal’s floor. The doors slid open, and there he was—sitting slumped outside his apartment, his back pressed against the wall.
He looked exhausted. His usual polished look was gone. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes red.
“I brought you some fruits.” I lifted the bag.
“Thanks.” He took it from me with a weak smile, then pushed open the door to let me inside.
The apartment was tidy but dim. He led me to the living room and poured me a glass of water.
I studied him as he sat down heavily across from me. His shoulders sagged like he carried a mountain.
“How are you feeling now? Still heartbroken?” I asked, half teasing, half serious. “Gr
