The wind moved between us, threading through the silence he left hanging.
My arms stayed crossed, but only because I didn't know what else to do with them. Mark looked like he didn't know what to do with himself either—like every thought he wanted to say was ricocheting against something sharp and splintering in his chest.
"You're not the only one losing it," I said, voice low. "But that's not an excuse."
He flinched slightly. It wasn't visible to anyone else, but I caught it. I always catch it.
"I know." His fingers flexed once at his side. "I wasn't trying to make it worse."
"Then why does it always feel like you are?"
He looked at me. Really looked. And for once, he didn't have an answer ready. No quick wit. No careful dodge.
"I don't know," he admitted, and it sounded like it hurt him to say it.
