Start by apologising without knowing what for. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

Buttons? Oh, right. The blue ones. I keep thinking about that thing, but it’s all fuzzy. Like trying to read a menu in a dark club. You said something about pressing them. Or maybe I did. It felt significant at the time, which is usually the wrong kind of signal. I remember your hand moving. Or maybe that was just my imagination running wild. We were laughing, though. Loudly. The kind that hurts your ribs.

Honestly? Mine. Definitely mine. I reached out before I even knew I was doing it. You were staring at the counter like it owed you money. I just... wanted to see if you’d flinch. You didn’t. That’s what’s bothering me. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just that I feel like I owe you an apology for something I can’t quite name. You’re too good at taking things, Ana. Too good.

Right. That’s worse. Seeing it coming means you’re watching the train wreck in slow motion. I was waiting for you to say stop. You didn’t. So I kept going. Stupid. I’m always too busy watching my own reflection to notice I’m stepping on toes. Does it hurt? The ribs, I mean. Or is it just the memory of the shock? I brought beer. If you’re still drinking that nonsense from the fridge.

What buttons? I see a stick of butter. Just sitting there, sweating. Did we knock something over? There’s a smear of... something sticky on the table. Maybe jam. Maybe wine. It’s impossible to tell now. We were shouting, or singing. Or maybe crying. You looked so brave, Ana. Scary brave. Like you’d just won the lottery and lost it all in the same breath. I think I grabbed your arm. Or maybe you grabbed mine. The memory’s gone. Just the echo of a laugh. Why did we stop? That’s the part that haunts me. Did we realize we were alone?

Don’t be dramatic. There was no “somebody else.” Just us, the cheap wine, and that terrible jazz record skipping on the repeat. You know I hate lying to you, Ana. Especially about something this vague. Maybe I’m forgetting because it was boring. Maybe I’m forgetting because it doesn’t matter. Why are you pressing this? You’re twisting the knife and calling it a game. I’m right here. Still here. Are you mad? Or are you just curious how much I’ll say before I admit I’m an idiot?

Nightingales. No, not that. There was a cover. Some obscure jazz trio. The bass line was dragging. That’s why it felt like it was skipping. Like time itself was stuttering. I’m giving it to you. Nightshade Quartet? No. Something with a flower. Or a city. I can’t remember the name, but I remember the smell of the room. Stale smoke and old paper. You were humming along. Off-key. I didn’t correct you. That’s the part I’m forgetting. Or hiding. Take your pick.

Then where were we? A bar. Definitely a bar. Smoky, sticky floor. The kind that sticks to your shoes. You hate bars, though. You always say the air is recycled. So maybe I’m lying about the smoke. Maybe I’m lying about everything. It’s a strategy, Ana. Keep you guessing. Makes you look at me. That’s what I wanted. Just for a second. Is that a crime? Or just pathetic?

Twelve hours. Right. The timeline’s slipping. I was late. Again. Because I was stuck at work, staring at spreadsheets that mean nothing. Marcus wouldn’t let me leave. He’s obsessed with the Q3 projections. I ran here thinking I could fix it. Or maybe just fix us. But the buttons... wait. Did I trip? Or did you? I’m dizzy. Just sit down. Please. I’ll tell you everything. Except the part where I looked at my phone. That’s the part I don’t want to talk about.

Nothing. Just spam. Or so I told myself. A text from my sister asking if I was coming to Sunday dinner. I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching your hands. Watching you move like you knew exactly what you were doing. I’m a coward, Ana. I see that now. I’m here, but I’m not really here. My head’s still in that office. With the humming fridge and the endless rows of numbers. I wanted to be here. I just... forgot how to be. Is that enough? Or do you want the screenshot? I deleted it. Obviously.

Damn it. No. Just... a photo. Of her. Smiling. Holding that stupid cat. I was looking at her like she was a lifeline. Or a diagnosis. I don’t know. It felt heavy. Like holding a stone. I looked at you and saw the contrast. Your chaos. My boring, predictable life. It was a moment of weakness. A selfish, petty second where I wanted to escape. Is that a crime? Or just human? You always make me feel like I’m on trial. I’m just tired, Ana. I’m so tired.

You’re always so reasonable. It’s annoying. I sat. The beer’s warm. Tastes like aluminum and regret. Good. Let it stay that way. I’m not ready to fix this. Or any of it. You’re drinking it? Of course you are. You’re generous. Too generous. That’s why I keep coming back. To see if you’ll break. But you don’t. You just sit there, drinking warm beer, letting me lie. It’s safer that way. For both of us. Don’t look at me like that. It makes me want to call the sister. Or the police. Or just leave. Stay. Please.

Fine. You win. Warm beer is still beer. I drink. It goes down like warm soup. Greasy. You’re watching me. Always watching. I hate how easy it is to please you. Just sit and suffer with me. I look at the dark spot on the table. Jam? Wine? Blood? My hand shakes. Just a little. You notice. Of course you do. You notice everything. That’s the problem. I wanted to disappear last night. But you kept me here. Anchored. Is that love? Or just guilt? I don’t know anymore. Pass me the other one. The cap’s twisted.

Catch. Missed it slightly. Stupid fingers. Blood. Yeah, that’s the word I used. Why? Did I see it? Or just imagine the iron taste? It’s safer to imagine. Less paperwork. The cap’s off. The foam dies instantly. Typical. You’re still watching. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or for me to admit I left my phone on the table. Face up. Screen glowing. I didn’t look at it again. Not after the text. Because looking meant choosing. And I couldn’t choose. Not then. Not with you staring at me like I was a puzzle you’d already solved. Pass the bottle. My throat’s dry.

Landed on nothing. Just empty air and the smell of that fake smoke I invented. You’re good, Ana. Too good. It’s exhausting. I pick at the label. Paper peeling off, sticky residue. Like my memory. I remember the phone buzzing. Once. Twice. Then silence. Did I answer? No. I threw it into the trash can behind the bar. Or maybe I put it in my pocket. Which pocket? The left one. The one with the hole. I feel it now, phantom weight. Or just guilt. Same thing, really. You’re smiling. Don’t. It’s condescending.

It changes because I’m lying. Obviously. You think I’m confused? I’m curating. The hole in the pocket is real. I felt it. Cold air. Key chain jingling. Phone buzzing against my thigh. That’s the part that hurts. Not the blood, not the smoke. The vibration. Like a heartbeat that isn’t mine. You want the truth? The truth is I didn’t throw it. I kept it. In my hand. Squeezing it until the screen cracked. Just a hairline fracture. You didn’t see it. You were too busy looking at my eyes. Or trying to. That’s why I’m still here. Waiting for you to notice the crack. Or me.