The Moth
Their conversation trails into whispered words, choked out with a whimper and a sense of regret and it falls into a loaded silence. So much more left to say, so much left hanging between them, replaced by a heavy awkward silence. She is the first to break their locked gazes and stare into the flickering fire in front of them. He rubs his sweaty palms against his dirty jeans and notices how close they are. Thighs almost toughing, her arm casually brushing his, the one hanging from the sling she had made for him. He makes no attempt to move, and neither does she, both staring at the fire, leaving their words hanging loosely, dangerously between them. She eventually gets up to leave, with a halfhearted smile. He still feels her arms wrapped around him, her face in the crook of his neck, her warm breath against his skin. He wants nothing else but to ask her to stay. But he just returns her weak smile and nods.