ATONEMENT || 𝟏𝟖+ [hiatus]

𝑖𝑖. 𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡

──・・𖦁・・──

Complicated doesn't begin to explain how I feel right now. Tristan's once comforting gaze makes me want to scream. It's been two years since I spoke to him, and around eight years since he started to pull away from me. As I sit here now, I wonder if he's not just here physically, if that mind of his is on the same plane of reality right now. I have no idea. I used to know, but I can't tell anymore.

"How have you been?"

A harsh retort sinks its claws into my throat, begging to be unleashed into the world, but I swallow it as quickly as it surfaces. "I'm better."

Tristan was my best friend. My rock. My world. The person I trusted more than anyone, who I would pour my heart out to for hours on end, into the dead of night and up until the sun's first rays split the night sky. It decreased more and more until we stopped talking after Sam betrayed me. He never reached out, and neither did I. He even stopped discussing our friendship in interviews. I should be thankful, considering my current stance, but if anything it drove the knife deeper into the carcass of our relationship. When they'd ask, he'd just shake his head and smile while my heart broke all over again. Each and every time.

"That's good, great actually." He pauses, looking at the slightly melted ice cubes in his glass of what I presume to be scotch, before confessing: "I'm really happy to hear that."

His words weave together, creating what should be a blanket of comfort over my unease, but his eyes are so conflicted. He seems remorseful. I can tell there's something on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken into existence, but he either can't say it or he won't. It could be a bit of both. Maybe I'll be let back in one day, but I won't hold my breath. I tear my eyes away from Tristan, but immediately I wish I hadn't done so. He's staring at Kirsty, his eyes oozing with a disgusting amount of love and his hand resting on her abdomen, which I now realize is swollen.

Oh...

Oh shit.

She puts her hand atop his, a familiar ring that drags me down into my mind and away from the scene unfolding before my eyes.

The last time I saw that ring, I was five years old and my mother was showing me her engagement ring, pointing out how distinct it was in comparison to her wedding ring.

"Why did daddy buy two rings?" I asked her, confused by why it was needed.

"Well, they were for two different occasions, Bug. This one," she handed me her engagement ring. It was silver with tiny diamonds embedded in its band. Simple and clean. "He gave me this one when he asked me to marry him."

She then handed me her wedding ring: a silver band with two diamonds, one red and one white, the metal of the band wrapping them around each other in a sort of embrace. "He gave me this one on our wedding day."

"Why is one red?"

Mom smiled at me. "The white stands for the happiness of our marriage, and the red reminds me that no matter what happens between us, we still love each other very much."