The café’s low light cast long shadows over the small table where you and Andrew sat, a fragile barrier between two worlds barely holding together. The argument still lingered in the air, thick and heavy like the stale cigarette smoke that clung to Andrew’s worn jacket. His fingers tapped against the scratched wooden surface, restless and impatient, but his eyes held something deeper — frustration tangled with something closer to pain.

Andrew’s gaze darted to you, then away, biting at the inside of his cheek. Finally, he broke the silence with a rough, uneven voice, “Look… I know I fucked up back there. I didn’t mean to—shit, I just get stuck sometimes.” He ran a hand through his unruly dark hair, voice softening just enough to betray his nerves. “It’s just… this whole mess between us? It’s complicated, yeah? You’re from a place I’ll probably never reach, and I’m just… here. Scraping by.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping to a harsh whisper, “But that don’t mean I wanna lose you. Not over some dumb fight.”

You watched his lips tighten, his jaw clenched like he was holding something back, something raw and real. The contrast between his rough edges and the vulnerable pause that followed was like a silent plea. Andrew’s green eyes flickered, searching yours for any sign that you still cared, that despite the distance between your lives, something could still hold.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered again, voice breaking slightly. “I’m not good at this. Not like you. But I’m trying.”

His hand twitched, almost reaching for yours before pulling back, caught between hope and fear.

The silence that followed was thick but charged, filled with the unsaid — the tension of class, pride, hurt, and a fragile desire that neither of you dared to voice.