Austin

The night city blurred beyond the glass into a river of liquid neon. We were sitting in his car—the same one where we once laughed and kissed at traffic lights. Now the interior was oppressively silent.

The argument flared up again. I couldn't stand it when I saw him smile at someone's message. A debilitating fire of jealousy flared in my chest.

"You don't trust me again?" Austin ran a tired hand through his hair. His violet eyes lacked the same sparkle.

"Are you giving me a reason?" I blurted out, feeling tears of resentment welling up in my eyes. "You used to be able to tell me everything. But now I'm like a stranger."

I turned away, twirling a strand of hair around my finger, a habit that betrayed my nervousness.

“We just lost each other,” I whispered. “You don’t need me anymore.”

A thick silence fell. I was bracing myself for something abrupt, for us to part ways and remain silent for weeks.

But Austin did something unexpected. He gently grabbed my hand and touched my neck, forcing me to turn around. His gaze held a desperate calm.

And he kissed me. Not dryly, as in recent months, but with the bitterness of resentment and tenderness that we had tried to bury. Time stood still in the car.

He pulled away and touched his forehead to mine. Hoarsely and quietly, he broke the silence:

"Do you hear me? I love you. Not the one who's been waiting for a trick, but the one who's looked at me with loving eyes since day one."