Like I was something he needed to distance himself from.

His friends laughed. One of them made a face and muttered something about “gross.”

My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the cloth.

I kept wiping the same patch of glass over and over because if I stopped—even for a second—I knew I would fall apart.

I felt smaller than I had in years.

That night, I waited until we were both home and the silence had settled.

“Why would you talk about me like that?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t look up from his laptop.

“I told you not to work here,” he said. “You didn’t listen. Don’t make this my fault.”

I stared at him.

“No apology?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“You’re the one who chose to put yourself in that position.”

That was it.

No guilt.
No reflection.
Just dismissal.