It’s sour
Tony stares at you, his gaze heart achingly soft — patient.
The questions repeats in your head:
Are you okay?
You don’t know how to answer — you don’t know if you can answer.
There’s a lump in your throat that’s constricting any words from escaping. It’s harder to breathe and Tony’s standing right there, watching it all.
You nod instead.
Your chest burned, the sensation clawing up your throat.
Your thighs itched to be slit. You want to cut — need to cut right now. Yet you can’t, Tony’s standing right there.
Why was he here? He doesn’t want to be here.
You don’t want help. Tony can’t help you.
Tony nods.
Then, he bends over and tosses a forgotten shirt into the hamper.
“I’ll be going, then,” he said, quietly.
Tony stared at you for another long moment before nodding again and leaving.
You took a breath of sour, heavy air.