"I'm sorry."

And he does sound sorry, standing a few feet in front of me with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, eyes focused on his Doc Martins. For some reason, those two words are the only ones I register. The speech that came before had bounced off the wall I've erected in front of me and it isn't until he apologizes that I realize what he means.

"It's not your fault," I hear coming from my mouth. It sounds so distant, this instant reflex of mine. I hate it when people say they're sorry, because I'm always inclined to tell them that it isn't their fault, even though it mostly is. For a second, I'm wondering about this, then I'm grimacing because I suddenly remember what he's doing here, standing more than three but less than ten feet in front of me. I'm not sure whether I want him closer or farther. Probably farther.

I study his face, then. It's slightly turned to the side and he's staring at something on the ground, sucking his cheeks in and I memorize those cheekbones that I've caressed so many times. He doesn't look happy or sad. Just… a bit pained.

The four words I actually do remember before the 'I'm sorry' are the most horrible, clichéd, cruelest words that could possibly ever be linked together. We Need To Talk. Before he even opened his mouth to say that revolting phrase, I sort of had an idea, but I held out hope. Even when the first three words escaped his lips, I still found myself wondering of maybe the phrase would end up differently. Something like "We need to… f**k," or "We need to… kiss and make up," or even "We need to… run away together and spend the rest of our lives in holy, matrimonial bliss."

"I never meant to hurt you," blurts from his mouth and finally, he's finally looking at me and I'm staring back at him, a little surprised and, though he says he didn't mean to hurt me, hurt.

Then, I'm noticing his eyes for the first time. A few days ago, I could've recited all the specks of colors that showed up at one time of day, depending on what color he was wearing and what mood he was in. Now, I just see that when he's perplexed, there's these lines that form at the edges and the irises darken into near black.

"I just - " he starts, but I cut him off.

"It's fine," I say and I'm damn proud of myself because my voice doesn't waver and break down. I sound strong as I tell him, "You don't need to explain."

"Nica," he takes a step forward and I take a step back. He freezes. Now, I'm wondering if there's a perfect song to go with this not-so-perfect moment. Probably. But I'll figure out what it is later when I'm in my room and crying. I'll figure out later when this not-so-perfect moment finally registers in my head.

"Look, it's getting late," I whisper and grab onto the doorknob of the screen door. "Maybe we'll talk tomorrow."

Maybe not.

For a long ten seconds, he doesn't say anything. He's holding my gaze, but I'm not sure if he's really seeing me. For once, I can't tell what he's thinking and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing.

Finally, he nods and swivels on his left foot and starts down the porch steps.

I let out a breath and with each step he's taking, I'm feeling a part of my wall break down.

wow. very nicely written.

I don't get it... why is the "story" startin off some where in the middle of the scenario?... There's no presentation or anything. We don't even get to know/recognize who "he" is =\

Did you not read the story?

Obviously this was a break up.

oh wow, i love it :D

Yeah I realize that. Bah never mind, I'm weird about writing/essays etc...

It's not an essay. It's a short one-shot about a moment in life. It was written a long time ago, but generally, when I'm going through a writer's block or can't seem to actually finish an essay for school, I'd write something like this really quickly to get things going again. It can potentially be an excerpt in a story, but I really don't have a desire to expand it.

understood