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summary: in which; you have been tolerating an unrepairable marriage for far too long, and it's only when Harry comes along do you realize all that you're missing.
trigger warnings: self-deprecation, a toxic marriage, manipulation, mature themes.
word count: 13.7k
includes: co-worker harry, written in the second person.
based on: ♫ tolerate it, taylor swift ♫
✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼
He skimmed through the book, expeditiously, albeit his fingers moved hesitantly. It was as though he regretted the speed he was partaking. Hitting fast forward to a story he had read on numerous occasions and wished to cherish, always as a means to ignore your lingering stare and often as a means to avoid your touches, your pleas, your gentle whispers of doubt.
His eyes remained glued to the flickering pages, briefly eyeing the top paragraph for information typed in inky perfection before returning to his movements. The literary choices were always deliberate, as the man was nothing but precise with his readings.
"I'm trying to find the page where Jake hosts the dinner. . . all his friends attend and Taylor feels like shit, remember? It's 206, right?"
His words were clipped and uneven as he inhaled through his nostrils, nearly heaving. It was as though it pained him to speak with you so casually. His eyes did not stray from their task despite his claims and inquiries. The fact was not lost on you, and you were in a dream-like state when he spoke moments prior, hazed by the wariness of your actions and the discrete hostility of his own.
You were woken from such with down-turned lips and a creased forehead when he spoke. It was as though speaking to you was a chore, his breath similar to when he participates in those marathons with his mates, and you found yourself rolling your eyes at the thought.
I know it's our anniversary, I'm sorry, but I gotta go. Running's good for me. You understand, yeah?
His chest shook with an intake of oxygen, and the thought of your most recent anniversary had you maliciously hoping that his heart would deflate like a balloon.
Perhaps the deflation would be similar to the balloons you had strung up for his most recent birthday, decorated with a happy smiley face and a sweet Happy Birthday, honey! Your lips were painted with a glossy shimmer, that day, and they pressed into the stubbled skin of his cheek before he fled your grasp for a deserving slice of the cake you had baked and decorated to the best of your efforts. Despite the recent downfall of your marriage, his birthday remained a priority of yours. Your husband's decently older than you, and while you still adored them before meeting him, he had taught you to appreciate each birthday no matter how much older you got.
