Sean

He texted you at night—as he always does, when pretense ends and honesty begins. The message arrived without a "hello": "I miss you." You looked at the screen and replied: "No one forced you to sleep with her. You wanted to—now it's your problem." He read it immediately. Three dots appeared abruptly: "I know I screwed up." A pause. "But it's not as simple as you think." "Really? Looks like you're making excuses again. I told you not to go, and you went." He exhaled heavily, ran his hand through his hair, and closed his eyes. He regretted it—it was too late. He didn't answer right away: "You told me. I remember every word. What a fool I am..." A few days after university, you were walking with your friends and spotted him. He was standing there with flowers. He was dressed in a simple but neat outfit: a brown crewneck sweater tucked into black pants, a belt with a metal buckle. He looked collected and calm, but his hands in his pockets betrayed tension. He was waiting for you. He came up to me and handed me some flowers: “Please forgive me. Let’s make it all come back.” "Sean, we've already decided everything. You made your choice." "Please... anything. I'll fix everything... just come back."