“I’m fucking sorry,” he looked back up at me, “Better?” I looked down; the rose still in pieces at our feet. With my foot, I kicked the pieces around. "Nope still broken. Looks like ‘sorry’ didn’t do shit. That’s me,”—I pointed to the pieces— “that’s my fucking heart, and your apology isn’t going to mend or heal your mistakes anymore. Your ‘sorry’ doesn’t piece back what you’ve broken. And this time, it was us you broke. For good.”
