The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating, as Dad studied me from across the coffee table. His sharp gaze pinned me down, making my heartbeat thunder against my ribcage. Sweat gathered at my temples, and I shifted uncomfortably, my fingers twisting into knots against my lap.
I hated this.
I hated the way his unreadable expression made my stomach churn with uncertainty, the way his presence alone forced out the truths I had buried deep within me.
My throat was dry, tight. My tongue ran over my lips and I lowered my gaze to the floor, as if avoiding his eyes would somehow lessen the weight of the confession sitting heavy on my tongue.
When I felt like digging the floor to hide myself, Dad’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.
“I won’t ask. So, start.”
