Why?

The collar of my stark white shirt was soaked to the bone, just like the back of my neck. Like wet paper against my neck. I could blame the August heat or the diner's broken air conditioning. I was tracing the peeling part of the Formica table with my fingers, pressing my thumb into the deep grooves. Hard enough to keep from breaking.

The precious ice in my water glass shifted indifferently. Clink. It was melting too, just like mine...

You know how the wait for an important date feels. You prepare for these things. I had a whole script in my head for when Marcus finally walked in. We hadn't spoken since the breakup.

Suddenly, I caught him out of the corner of my eye, entering airily with a slow gait. He looked indifferent, as if he were whistling, looking around with confidence. But then he just slid into the red vinyl booth opposite me, grinning like it was nothing.

"Still drinking the terrible coffee?" he asked.

I laughed awkwardly at the first verbal contact. A real, stupid cackle. Because yes, it tasted like ruined battery acid. And for a second, memories of our old apartment came to mind. Like we were twenty-two again, staying up until dawn in that cramped room, trying to figure out our messy lives. It was hard. The feeling was messy.

Then the waitress came by and poured his mug. Black.

Clink. The ice in my glass settled lower.

The easy smile just sort of... slid off his tired face.

"Look," he started, staring into his mug. "I know I—"

"Don't," I cut him off abruptly. My tortured chest tightened. That heavy, dumb, aching pressure right behind the ribs. "Just. Don't do the speech."

The thing is, I knew for sure he was going to apologize. He wanted to clear his conscience. And hatred started to build inside me for it. He would say his sorry with such charm, as always, and walk away feeling clean in his soul.

"I need to say this," he whispered. He reached out, his hand sliding across the table toward mine.

I pulled my hand back quickly, as if it were burning from end to end up to the shoulder.

"You don't need to say anything," I said dryly, almost trembling. My voice was very weak. The truck driver in the next booth looked over. I didn't care. "You walked out. You just left. Because it got hard, or—wait, no. Because you got scared. That's what really happened. You panicked."

He didn't argue. He just pulled his hand back hesitantly.

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that I— never mind. Honestly, it wouldn't have changed a single thing. The sick joke I told him? The open secret I've never told anyone? Was I going to quit, too? No, certainly not. I was looking for a way to confess for months. I was just too much of a coward and pulled the trigger first under the pretext of truth. So I let him leave, and then I lost myself. That's what I do. I push people away, and then I get mad at myself when they actually leave.

Everything stopped. The diner noise just vanished. The waitress was mid-stride, a coffee pot hovering over a mug. Steam curled up like a white ribbon. The dust was dancing in the dirty sunlight filtering through the blinds. One long, hollow breath. The whole world was holding perfectly still, balanced right on the edge of a knife.

Then the plates clattered in the kitchen. Time started again.

He reached into his pocket. Put a wrinkled ten-dollar bill on the table.

"Yeah. I guess I did panic," he said finally.

He slid out of the booth. He didn't look back.

I just sat there.

Clink.

The last piece of ice hit the bottom of the glass. Water now. Just lukewarm water.

I picked up the ten-dollar bill. It was soft. I folded it in half. Then in half again. Wondering if I should run out to the parking lot.

I didn't.

The orange streetlights flickered on outside, buzzing in the quiet. I watched a moth hit the window. Again. And again.

...

A/N:

I must confess the truth to you. It was my first relationship after my gender transition. He had no idea that previously I was a male athlete and became the "dumb" photo model. From the stress I had about hiding, I started psychologically tearing my hair out. You see, my conscience... I was very confused.