You Have to Mean It
"I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you."
-Friedrich Nietzche
"I'm sorry."
The words hang between them, like the dull thud of pebbles as they hit the sandy bottom of a dried well. He does not dare glance at her, like a prisoner on death row too afraid to glance up at the judge's eyes, sitting high above him, as they pass down their verdict.
His heart clenches, his throat feels dry. It's like he's a five year old again, being sent to the principal's office. He takes a sip of warm soda, letting it slide down his oesophagus as his shirt sticks to him, an unpleasant second skin.
He continues to avoid her gaze and keeps his planted firmly on the soft waves, the foam creating white figures dancing on the peak of the wave until they finally shattered upon the grainy sand. The silence stretches between them until he feels like he can't take it anymore, like it's filling his airways with its heavy implications, choking him. He parts his dry and cracked lips, trying to suck in enough air to say something, anything, just to break the deafness in his ears.
"You don't mean it..."
Her tone is neutral, matter of fact, but to him her voice is like ice piercing his skin. His eyes turn to her, the soda clatters softly as he drops it, hissing as it spills the rest of its contents onto the sand. He doesn't even notice. She isn't looking at him, her head is completely turned as her eyes focus on some spot far in the distance, on the other side of the empty beach. All he can see is a mess of blonde hair peeking out from under a ridiculous pink beanie.
He didn't have an answer to this. Because if he was honest with himself, he still believed he hadn't done anything wrong. If she would just accept that, they could continue as before. Really, this was all her fault, resentment hissed through his mind, She's the one hurting him! She should be the one to apologize!
And yet, the small voice of reason piped up, if he hadn't done anything wrong, then how the hell had they gotten here? He brushes it aside like an annoying gnat, not wanting to listen to its whispers accompanied with heavy dread. He was sure he could fix this, if she would just look at him-
His fingers reach up, as if of their own accord, to touch her frail shoulder and bring her back to him. But they pause just short of the fine fabric of her top, each fingertip burning. His hand is suspended there for a moment, unmoving, until finally it grows too heavy for him to hold up, dropping uselessly to his side.
The waves continue to crash against the shore, in their eternal tug of war with the sand, as he looks to her, and she looks away.
A/N: Just a small drabble. Please review if you read : ).