And so, even though I felt cornered, I tried a couple more times to steer the conversation back to what mattered. But it was like shouting into the wind. No one listened. No one cared.
I didn’t know what to think. Was I meant to feel outnumbered? Intimidated?
Did he ask his family to show up? And if so, why? To shut me up? Did he feel like he needed backup?
My mind was chaos. Every possible theory colliding with the next. And in the middle of it all, it hit me—it’s not happening. With a face full of bitter realization, I slapped some money on the table, stood up, said goodbye, and left.
I walked up the few stairs toward the exit, the stale pub air clinging to my skin. I felt the weight of drunken eyes piercing my back. It made me stop for a moment.
Should I…?
What if…?
I hesitated, but only briefly. Then I pulled the door handle, stepped out, and left that uninviting space behind me.
Fresh air.
But I couldn’t feel it. I only saw the shape of my breath, too frequent and too heavy. I was shaking—but not from the cold. I’d only made it a few steps when I heard him shouting behind me:
“DON’T DO THIS TO ME!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The streetlight buzzed faintly overhead, swallowing his voice in fog. Everything around us felt too still, too indifferent—like the world itself was conspiring to let him keep disappointing me.
“Don’t do what?” I called back.
“DON’T YOU WALK OUT ON ME!”
That was it. I couldn’t hold it anymore.
“WHAT WAS I MEANT TO DO, HUH? I CAME TO TALK TO YOU. TO YOU ONLY. ABOUT US. YOU KNEW THIS. AND YOU KEPT IGNORING ME—YOU BROUGHT ALL THESE PEOPLE. WHAT WAS I MEANT TO DO?”
We argued. Our gestures cast warped shadows across the building façade—just as dramatic as our words. No one cared. People passed by with their heads down, watching their own shadows instead.
“Why are you like this?” I asked.
“Like what? I care about you,” he slurred.
I could see it now—he was drunk. Obviously. I felt desperate. Like nothing I said mattered, like no words could reach him.
“You don’t! And I don’t want you to tell me, I want you to show me. You make it so difficult!”
I was trembling all over. My palms were sweaty. My mouth, bone dry.
“Did your mum put you up to this?” he said, completely out of the blue.
“WHAT THE FUCK? Why would you bring her into this? She’s got nothing to do with this. It’s you and me, and that’s it!”
“Look, I never hurt your mum. It wasn’t always butterflies and sunny days between us, but I always treated her well. I just want you to know that.”
His eyes were watering.
“Leave her out of this,” I said firmly.
“Okay, let’s talk then.”
“Finally! What the fuck took you so long?”
“You wanted to talk, so here it is! You didn’t even recognize me.”
“WHAT? What do you mean I didn’t recognize you?”
But I knew what he meant.
“I bumped into you a few months ago. You didn’t even say hello—you blanked me.”
A wave of anger swept through me.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really want to go there? Alright. Yeah—we didn’t exactly ‘bump into each other,’ did we? You were out with a bunch of people, off your face drunk. They dragged you across the whole town square to say hello. And you could barely stand. I did speak to you. But of course you don’t remember that, do you? No fucking wonder. Imagine your dad—who you hardly ever see—is in your hometown and doesn’t even bother to get in touch. And then you play the blame game? Fuck right off, mate.”
We stood there in silence. It was eerie. Everything else faded—just the two of us suspended in a scene that felt both too loud and too quiet. My heart was racing. My legs were jelly. It took everything not to collapse. His legs seemed like jelly too—but for very different reasons.
“Do you want to punch me?” he asked with a surprising confidence.
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