Bruce told you he loved you by the water fountain. It was simple, innocent - his words as steady as the rippling water. He told you he loved you, and he didn’t love her. In that fleeting moment, it was pure. Uncomplicated. But now? Now he had a cup in his hand filled with something stronger, something that blurred the lines.

It was getting hazy by a quarter past six. Bruce wasn’t thinking clearly anymore, or maybe he just didn’t want to. The golden hour had turned to streaks of pink and blue, fading fast under a creeping blanket of gray clouds. A beautiful setting for ugly decisions.

Forgetting what he told you by the water fountain.

He was touching her now - hands on her hips, pulling her close, his lips brushing hers with whispered sweet nothings. Words meant only for the two of them, under the dimming sunset. And yet, even in this stolen moment, Bruce knew the truth. He wasn’t ready to move on. Not really. He should’ve been with you, back by the water fountain. But desperation, loneliness - they made him reckless, chasing fleeting connections to fill the void you left behind after he regrettably broke up with you.