Lonely

“What’s wrong?” He plopped down on the chair across from me, sitting on it backwards and resting his arms across the top.

I was silent a moment before looking up at him. “I’m tired of being lonely.” He didn’t say anything. “I had a good thing,” I went on, anger flooding my voice. “I had a good thing, and I ruined it.”

He nodded, and the left corner of his mouth twitched up into a rueful not-smile. “Peter,” he agreed.

“No, not Peter,” my voice got quiet. He only looked at me, hard. I forced myself to look back at him. Swallowed. Opened my mouth. Spoke.

“I meant you.”

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