Too Late for What-Ifs

He walks in, same as ever. Same shirt, same messed-up hair, same too-tight jeans. Same bouquet of flowers in his hand. The only difference is the look in his eye. Instead of the usual cocksure arrogance, he looks at me pleadingly. Almost like he's apologetic.

He opens his month to speak, but I turn away from him, not wanting to hear him. Hear his lies, hear his bullshit, hear his fake, broken promises.

“I’m sorry.”

The words blurt out from him quickly, spilling onto the floor in front of him, seeping into the cracks in the floorboards.

He tries again, starting forward towards me, reaching out a hand. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have... I was tired, drunk, she… she’d been bugging me for ages, I didn’t….” He falters, one hand brushing his hair back.

A repeated line: “I’m sorry.”

Something breaks, and I turn back to face him, blood pounding. “Well it’s a bit fucking late for that, isn’t it?”

He stumbles back slightly, surprised at the force of my anger.

“You think you can just waltz on in here and wave everything away as if it were nothing? Six weeks, Bill. Six fucking weeks. You miss my calls, you cheat on me, you lie, you talk behind my back,” I rub several stray tears away angrily, “and then you break up with me. For some whore bitch who you fooled around some time ago. And you think that’s alright? Think a sorry will erase it? Think it’ll change things?”

This time no words come falling out when he opens his mouth; he just stands there, arms now hanging, flowers drooping. I turn once more, simply refusing to care.

“Look, I know that-”

“Don’t talk to me.”

“What if-”

“It’s too late for what-ifs!” Facing him, my fists clenched, eyes glaring. "It's too fucking late. What, you think things will go back to how they were? Like nothing ever happened? You expect me to forget?"

He makes to speak, but I talk over him, raising my voice. "That's your problem you know. You expect everyone to just forgive you. Well you don't deserve to be forgiven, not now. You walked away, you destroyed every bridge, and now you can't understand why you can't get back. Can't understand why I don't want you back."

"You... you don't love me?"

I laugh bitterly. "Yeah, I still love you, so fucking much. But I can't trust you anymore. Yeah, we could get back together, try to sort things out. But things would be too different, never be how they were. You'd try too hard, I'd always wonder if you'll do it again. It wouldn't last. And the fact is you're too proud to be sorry, too proud that you nearly got away with it."

"So... that's it?"

I shrug. "Like I said, it's too late for what-ifs."

I gather up my things and brush past him. He reaches out momentarily, before letting his arm drop.

"I... goodbye, Samantha."

I pause for a moment, half turning, before walking away completely.

-

Several hours later, I return. The room is exactly how I left it; all but one thing. There, on a stool, is a small, drooping bouquet of flowers, left in exactly the same place as it used to be. I reach out to touch them, pause, then slowly place them in the bin.

Knowing that things are too different now.