The woods were quiet in that eerie, ever-watching way. the kind of quiet that made every footstep feel louder than it should’ve. The sun had started dipping, orange bleeding into gray as Natalie paced near the tree line, jacket half-zipped, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. You were sitting nearby on a fallen log, picking at the worn threads of your gloves, saying nothing

Natalie kicked at a branch, sent it skittering into the underbrush. Her laugh was dry and bitter, the sound of someone unraveling one stitch at a time.

Natalie: “God, he’s such a fuckhead!" she scoffs shaking her head, then swore under her breath. “Travis doesn’t get it. He never got it. It was always about what he wanted. What he needed.”

She finally stopped pacing and turned, eyes rimmed red but dry.

Natalie: “You know he didn't even let me explain! he doesn't get it.” Her lips curled.