The Time He Saw Her

The Eleventh Time He Saw Her

The eleventh time he saw her, they were arguing.

She was yelling at him while he tried to look angry while scribbling down comprehensible replies on a piece of paper he found in her kitchen - with the pen he nearly always carried around in his pocket.

In reality he wanted nothing else than to go home and cry. Because he knew that he had failed, and what was about to happen tonight. What she was going to do tonight.

She knew perfectly well that he knew.

What he didn't know was the nature of this argument. Heck, he didn't know why it had escalated to this, or what he had said. To be honest, she didn't know exactly either.

It was just that she wasn't ready to see the words he had been trying to write so many times. She didn't want anyone to get hurt. She didn't want to get hurt. To her, physical pain wasn't a measurement anymore, but the mental distress he could cause her freaked her out.

Her safe, her safe heaven even. What would she do if she hurt him? What would she do with herself? If something were to happened to her, that would hurt, and how would she forgive herself then? She knew what he had been though, he didn't deserve that.

After what felt like ages, he stormed out of the house, a neatly folded piece of paper on her kitchen table.

Let me know when you're done playing a pretender.

It stung. Because he was comparing her to someone that once broke his golden, pure heart.