He walks over, footsteps steady, closing the distance between us. He stands in front of me, but I turn my face away.
I know what I look like. A wreck. A traitor.
Full of guilt and sins I can’t forgive myself for.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out, trying to turn me toward him. Trying to meet my eyes.
But I won’t let him. I let my hair fall forward and hide me. “I’m sorry,” I mutter at last, voice hoarse. It burns on the way out, but I force it through.
“For what?” he asks, his hands landing on my shoulder.
Here I am, choking on guilt, hating myself so much I can’t breathe, and still, I feel happy just to have his hands on me.
“I’m so pathetic,” I whisper, and a sob slips out before I can stop it. I cover my face as more threatens to come.
“You’re not,” he says, pulling me into a hug.
H
