Jiang says nothing.
He just looks at me—eyes dark, hurt sitting right there on his face. His lips part like he wants to say something, then press together again. His throat moves as he swallows it down.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Awkward. Loud.
I shift in my seat, fingers twisting together in my lap. My shoulders slump.
After a few seconds, I let out a weak breath and mumble, not even looking at him, "I'm sorry…"
I give a small, self-mocking laugh that sounds awful even to my own ears.
"I'm just… an insecure girlfriend," I say, rubbing my arm. "Like some idiot teenager."
My voice trails off at the end, thin and tired.
There's silence between us.
The waiter comes, places the food on the table, murmurs something polite, and leaves. The plates are warm. Steaming. My appetite, however, is six feet underground.
I stare at the food and feel this heavy knot in my chest.
…I really messed up.
