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“Why are you so mean?”
“Huh? What the hell are you going on about? I’m not mean.” He eyed you as he took a long drag from his cigarette, leaning over the balcony railing.
“Okay,” you conceded. Then after a beat, “why are you always so angry?”
He scoffed. “I’m not, sweetheart, but I will be if you keep talking shit.”
You stared at him pensively from your spot on the far side of the balcony. He was right, you knew. He wasn’t mean (subjective) and he wasn’t always angry. You just couldn’t conjure up the words for what you really wanted to say. Did you want to ask him why he was so consumed with revenge? Why he was a villain? Why he was broken ? But to all these things, you already knew the answer.
Instead, you said nothing as you nudged your way in front of him and wrapped your arms around his waist, head resting on his chest. He stiffened for a moment as he held his arms out awkwardly before slowly bringing them to rest around you. You could hear the rhythmic thump thump of his heartbeat as you rested in each other’s arms.
As he tilted his head down to inhale your familiar scent, the breeze carried your softly spoken words to his ears –
“You don’t have to fight anymore.”