Cyril
I watched from the living room window as Alan strode down the driveway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight, a familiar tension radiating off him like heat from a summer pavement.
I knew him well enough to see it: the storm brewing inside.
Whatever had happened with Susan...it was heavy, more than the ordinary frustration or anger. I could feel it even from here, and yet I stayed put.
He glanced over his shoulder briefly, almost as if checking whether I was following him. I didn’t move.
I let him go, knowing that insisting on walking beside him or questioning him now would be futile.
He needed air, he needed space to untangle the thoughts that had clouded him.
And if there was one thing I had learned over the past weeks, it was that Alan didn’t open up
