I wiped my tears fast, but they kept coming. The past bled into the present every time I looked at that wedding photo. Vincent and I, smiling. Glass on the wall. White roses. A lie in a frame.
"I hate you," I whispered. My palm scrubbed hard against my cheek, like I could erase him from my skin.
"Why are you crying?"
His voice cut through the quiet. Vincent stood in the bathroom doorway. Water dripped from his hair, tracked down his bare chest, and disappeared under the white towel slung low on his hips. Each drop caught the light before sliding away. He looked like he’d stepped out of every mistake I’d ever made.
"I'm not crying," I snapped. I turned my face away. My throat burned.
"You’re not supposed to be in this room with me," I said, chin up. My voice didn’t shake. My hands did.
