[3] how did we end up here ;; nh

45 » Mask

"You," I jab my finger at her, pointing at her like a loaded gun, my eyes burning with fury. "you are fucking hilarious."

My jaw locks. Fury ripples beneath my skin like alive current. My breath stutters, uneven, sharp around the edges. I can't hold it anymore. The pressure has been building for too long and now it spills out; rage, heartbreak, exhaustion, everything I've buried. And yet, she stands there, so goddamn still. Her eyes shimmer with that same aching hope, as if she honestly believes that one kiss can rewrite the past. Like this -- us -- is something that can still be saved.

I love her. Once, I did. Truly. To be frank, how do you forget someone who knew every corner of your soul for nearly seven years? You don't. But love doesn't survive in ruins. Not when all that's left is ash and silence and things too broken to name. We are too far gone. And I, I have, already chosen. I walked away. I gave my heart to someone else. She is not the one I come back home. I knew it. I always knew.

My chest rises and falls too fast. I try to slow it down, but the storm inside me won't listen. She stays there, doesn't move a single bit. Just her and this goddamn empty parking lot. The wind whistles through the bare branches above us, sharp with the scent of decaying leaves and far-off rain.

Fuck. I have never been this angry at her. Not even at our worst. Why can't I just be happy? Why the hell does she keep showing up in the places I've tried to forget her?

I turn around. I don't say any other word. I open the car door, climb in, and slam it shut. The sound echoes, brutal in the quiet. I lock the doors. My hands grip the wheel, whit-knuckled. My breath still won't become right.

What the fuck just happened?

Why is she here? Why now? Why in Dublin, out of all places?

Hasn't she taken enough? All those years I spent drowning in guilt, apologizing over and over for a version of myself I don't even want to recognize. For mistakes I made when I was too young, too lost to know better.

I know I was the one who fucked up. But don't I get to move on? Don't I get to finally, finally be free?

A sharp knock jerks me out of my thoughts. Expected.

Once. Twice. Then faster.

I close my eyes. I let my forehead drop to the steering wheel. My teeth grit hard enough to ache.

It's only a few hours left before my soon to be fiancé lands in Dublin.

"Open the door," I hear her voice, muffled, but I know it. I can read it on her lips.

I don't move.

She knocks again. "Please."

Her breath fogs the glass. Her eyes search mine through the tinted window, wide and glistening. She looks half-wild-hair tangled from the wind, cheeks flushed red from the cold, like autumn itself carved her out of the season and left her here to shatter me.

My hand hovers over the lock. Trembles. I hate that the part of me still wants to open it.

But I don't.

Instead, I stay frozen.

Anne knocks again, harder. "Please, please, let me just talk to you," she says, louder. Then her voice breaks through, muffled but sharp through the closed window. "don't do this, don't fucking leave me like this again."

I frown.

Leave her?

Since when was I the one who left?

Wasn't it always her walking out, slamming doors, storming off into the night?

Wasn't it her hurling wine glasses and paperback books across the room whenever she thought I was cheating again when I was doing absolutely nothing?