exile (Short) ✓

❛❛i think i've seen this film before❜❜

I know you're hurting. I can see it in every part of your body. The way your eyes flicker away but keep coming back to me when you think I'm not looking. The way your body is slumped over the table. The way your knuckles have turned white from the death grip you keep on your beer bottle. The way the vein in your neck pulses.

You're hurting, and you're angry, and you have every right to be. But you also have to understand that I have every right to do this.

His arms around my waist shift and he pulls my back closer into his chest. The stubble on his chin grazes my temple as he talks to his friend, and your lip twitches. I know you scorn him. But it doesn't matter what you think, not anymore.

When you stand abruptly, the knot in my stomach tightens. What are you going to do?

Don't cause a scene.

But you don't. All you do is shrug on your coat and head to the door, but you drop your keys and wallet on the table. Audibly. You want me to know you're not leaving.

I don't care.

Today was supposed to be fun, but then you showed. I didn't think you would.

I don't care.

I wish I didn't care.

But I can't help myself.

I gently wreathe out of his embrace and excuse myself, slipping into my own coat and pushing open the heavy wooden door. An icy breeze whips my face. Snow settles in my long hair. Pushing my hands deep into my lined pockets, I follow the trace of your footsteps in the wet, ankle-deep white powder.

The cabin is beautifully lit from the outside as well. The reunion is in full swing. Everyone is there, inside, drinking punch and catching up. Except for you and me.

I find you on the other side of the log building, the side where there are no windows, no fairy lights. The faint glow from around the corner scarcely illuminates your face. The shadows flicker across your face, matching the dark pine woods in the background. You look like part of a still life, the way your back is leaning against the wall with your hands in your pockets and your eyes shut.

The frosty air is heavy and laps at my bare ears with sharp tongues. When you hear the crunch underneath my boots, your eyes fly open. Your head turns. The look in them knocks the air out of my lungs and makes my heart stop, just for a second. I'm offending you, again. You don't have to say anything. But you do, of course.

"Him?"

"You knew before you came tonight."

"The understudy?"

Your eyes are cold and insulting.

"He's not your understudy."

"It took you all of five minutes."

"That's not fair."

"Oh, yeah, talk to me about fair," you reply bitterly.

"You knew before you came tonight," I repeat.

The rapid fire ceases as your head turns away and falls back against the log wall. You let out a short, humorless laugh. A few seconds pass, stretch into a couple of seconds, then a lot of seconds. A gust of wind howls around the cabin.

"I didn't expect it to make me this sick."

The tone of your voice speaks volumes, and I have read them all. I swallow, running a hand through my wind-tossed hair. Your piercing eyes meet mine and my hand freezes mid-air.

"I just don't understand," you say and your voice sounds strained. "You never gave me any warning signs."

"Yes, I did. So many."