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I stepped out of the hospital's front doors, my heart heavy with a mix of emotions. Lip was perched on the curb, his cigarette glowing softly in the dim light. I settled down next to him, a small sigh escaping my lips as I found myself lost in thought. At first, he didn't glance my way, and I found myself grappling with what to say. Did I address the baby situation first or his mother's attempt? Before I could form my words, his mumbled remark pulled me from my contemplation.
"Don't fucking say it," Lip muttered, his words cutting through the silence between us.
"I wasn't going to," I responded quietly, my gaze dropping to my folded hands on my lap. The air hung heavy with tension, and I felt a mixture of uncertainty and regret swirling within me.
Lip cleared his throat, his gaze distant as he exhaled a plume of smoke. The weight of his emotions was palpable, and I found myself at a loss for how to bridge the gap between us. We sat in silence, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a heavy cloud.
Finally, Lip broke the silence, his voice laden with a mix of resignation and vulnerability, "You know, the only reason you came out here is because you know that baby isn't mine. You're hoping I'll run to you." His cigarette found its way to the concrete, discarded and forgotten. He looked over his shoulder as the hospital doors opened, his form tensing before he stood up abruptly.
The bitterness in his words stung, and I felt a pant of hurt deep within me. His accusation lingered, my heart aching with a tumult of emotions. "Lip, I..." I began, my voice faltering as I searched for the right words, my gaze locked onto his retreating figure.
His next words cut through the air, leaving a searing mark on my heart, "So, why don't you just go back in there and act like Ian's your boyfriend some more, so you can fill that void with love you so desperately want."
He walked away, leaving me stunned and wounded, a torrent of emotions swirling within me. The ache in my chest was overwhelming, and I felt a lump forming in my throat. Ian's voice reached me from behind, a soothing balm to my emotional turmoil, "Come on, Mabs. He's not worth it." His hand extended toward me, and I grasped it tightly, allowing his warmth to anchor me in the midst of my confusion.
"We can go home," Ian continued, his voice filled with understanding and compassion. "We can have a drink or two and forget about all this shit." His words offered solace, a reminder that I had support.
The Monica situation had shaken us all, and as we walked away from the hospital, I knew that while wounds might take time to heal, the bond between us was unbreakable.
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Ian and I were unwinding on the couch, the weight of the recent events momentarily lifted by the numbing effect of alcohol. "Ian," I sang, shifting to face him with an inebriated grin plastered on my face.
