This isn't weird.

Powerless

 "I should... go, shouldn't I?" Ben asked, wringing his hands awkwardly.

"Ben, wait—" Millie fumbled to grip the back of the couch in an attempt to pull herself up. Arthur stood, gently putting his hands on her shoulders to help her to her feet. She moved forward, reaching out toward Ben. He took a few steps to meet her in the middle and caught her hands in his.

"I'm sorry, Millie," he said again. "For not listening to you. For pushing you."

"Ben, it isn't—it's not your fault. I shouldn't have—I knew that you—It was wrong for me to—Oh, god." She closed her eyes as a fresh set of tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart," and softly kissed her knuckles before letting go of her hands. "Just... You can call me later—if you want to."

He left quickly.

On the sidewalk below, he paced anxiously in the dimming light of the dusk, replaying the scene over and over in his head. His whole body shook as he contemplated what he could have done differently, should have done differently.

He had ruined it. Ruined everything. Why couldn't he have just left well enough alone? They were having such a good time; he was winning her over, he was sure of it. Why couldn't he just enjoy the sliver of happiness that they had found together in the present? Why did he have to push it?

It was awful to see her like that, to see it up close. He had felt so helpless, so inadequate, so powerless to save her. All he wanted was to save her, to be the one to take her into his arms and soothe her fears away. Why couldn't he be that? He had known her, cared about her, for so long; he knew her so well. How was it that this other man—this stranger, that had dropped into their lives mere months ago—could do that when he couldn't?

In the corner of his eye, a neon light flickered to life across the street, and he turned to look at it. Big, friendly, red and blue letters: OPEN.

He had never really taken note of the bar across from Millie's apartment. It was small, nondescript. Ben stopped pacing.

Just one drink. To soothe his nerves. He wouldn't get drunk. Just one, and he would go home. He sat at the bar alone, sipping a scotch and soda slowly. There was nobody else there yet, but the bartender, thankfully, did not try to engage him in conversation. When the glass was empty, his hands were still shaking.

Just one more.

He was taking the last sip of his fourth drink when he heard it.

Ping.

Ben grabbed his phone from his pocket and swiped it open hurriedly, praying for a message from Millie. It wasn't. The text was from an unknown number.

If you're free right now, I would like for us to have a conversation. Would that be alright?

Another message followed. It was an address.