Why

It wasn’t right. It never was. I knew that. I know that. But all I can think, all I want to do right now is ask him—demand to know—why he left. But I can’t. I just stand and stare at him, the tape I’d used to patch up my heart snapping all over again.

He stares back. He hadn’t expected to see me either. His light hair is shaggy, falling into black eyes I always swore had stars in them, if only he’d stop and give them time to shine. There’s a silver ring in his ear, and he’s wearing a battered leather jacket. I notice a ragged hole in his jeans. So different, and yet still so much the same. There’s still mischief hidden in the corners of his crooked, serious mouth, and he still tips his head just a little when he looks at something. And the stars are still there too.

“Niki,” he says, his hands moving awkwardly, like he doesn’t know quite what to do with them. It seems for moment that he’s going to say something more, something maybe important, but all he ends up saying is “Hello.”

I wish for a moment that I could scream and rage and slap him, tell him just what I think of him, just what he did to me. I want to throw those stupid, useless little wads of tape in his face while I cry and punch the wall. I want to be caustic, insulting. I want to make myself hate him, ignore him. But more than anything, I wish I could ask.

“Niki,” he says again, “How are you?” I still don’t respond, making him even more uncomfortable. I am frozen, just watching him. What can I say to him? I can’t seem to pretend everything is okay, but neither can I seem to say that one thing, that one word I’ve wanted to say for so long. He runs his long fingers through his hair and shifts as though he’s about to leave.

“Why?”

Maybe I can. It is little more than a whisper, but I said it. I asked.

But he can’t answer. He starts and stares at me, his mouth open like maybe he has an explanation, a reason, but then it snaps shut and he turns and walks away.

“Why,” I whisper again, but this time it isn’t a question.