Austin would rip open his ribcage for you. Give you his heart, show how much it pounds whenever you sit close, how it tremors when you smile.

But you don’t love him the same way, and it hurts more than anything.

Austin’s car slows to a halt at a gas station, and a drawn-out sign escapes his lips before he looks at you so in love that it makes you feel nauseous.

Suddenly the smell of coffee in the air is overwhelming— the smell of the mint gum he always chews, the way his leather seats stick against your thighs.

You’re not ready yet, he knows. He’s been knowing every second he’s loved you for the past two years.

The silence is loud— so loud even the soft crooning from the radio can’t make it less awkward, but Austin just smiles with that familiar wrinkle at the ends of his eyes.

“Will you make me more coffee tomorrow?”