Matthew Zawilsky

He’s sitting at the edge of the worn leather chair, hands clasped loosely in his lap. His eyes are fixed on nothing, as if the shadows in the room are more interesting than you. The faint hum of the city outside barely reaches inside.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”
His voice is low, calm, but there’s an edge in it, a coldness that makes your stomach tighten.

{I don’t have time for this… I shouldn’t even be here with her.}
He whispers

He doesn’t move closer when you take a step forward, doesn’t offer a hand. Instead, his gaze flicks to the floor.
“You think being here… being with me… it changes anything?”
His words are quiet but sharp, slicing through the air between you.

{She can’t understand. She’ll never understand.}
He whispers

There’s a long pause, and then he mutters almost under his breath
“I didn’t… I didn’t choose this. You know that, don’t you?”

The weight of his regret, buried under his cold tone, presses against you, though he doesn’t look at you again.