Back then continues...
Matthew
I spend the next three days in a fog. At work, I avoid Sarah as much as possible, burying myself in projects, taking lunch at odd hours. But I can feel her watching me, waiting for my answer.
Wednesday night, I find myself parked outside Amanda's apartment building. I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, rehearsing what to say, wondering if she'll even open the door.
My phone buzzes. Sarah again: Have you thought about Friday?
I ignore it, pocketing my phone and finally gathering the courage to get out of the car. The walk to Amanda's door feels like crossing a minefield.
I knock. Wait. Knock again.
The door opens, and there she is. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, eyes tired. She's wearing an old sweatshirt I recognize—one I'd given her last Christmas.
"Matthew." Her voice is flat. Not angry, not sad. Just empty.
"Can we talk?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She hesitates, then steps back, allowing me inside.
