She looks petrified. Like she’s seen a ghost. I wipe my hands along my jeans, caught between a rock and a hard place. I want to fix this. I need to fix this. But how? What do I say? How do I tell her that I impulsively, and a hundred percent accidentally, stole a piece of her. A piece she may or may not have been willing to give. Scratch that. A piece she wasn’t willing to give. If she was, she would’ve told me herself. Instead, I took the opportunity from her, and she’ll never get it back.
