He was already sitting down beside me at that point, just far enough away for me to feel a little out of place. Somehow, I can't bring myself to mind.
I pick up my cup of tea and sip, savouring the sweet taste, feeling the heated path down my throat.
He rocks towards me and away, picks up his own cup. Takes a gulp of the hot mixture. I have my eyes on his leg. I put my cup down on the table roughly. It swirls around in the cup, mad that it has been disturbed.
"I don't know why I'm here," I confessed.
"I don't either," he confesses.
I move my gaze from his leg to his face. He looks the same as always – that too-cheerful smile plastered on his face. His lips were almost pouting when he smiled, but I pretend I don't notice.
I look down to the threadbare carpet. When I look back up to him, he isn't smiling or staring anymore. He swirls the contents of his mug. A whirlpool in his hands.
I sigh, looking to the ceiling for an escape.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," he sputters. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry, stupid," I say. "You don't have anything to be sorry about.
Author's Note: This was never meant to be finished. I started it on a whim two years ago. Also: yes, I'm Canadian. My spelling will suffer for those who aren't.
