You were only twenty minutes late. Traffic, a delayed bus, nothing unusual. For you, it was something small; an inconvenience at most. Barely spiking your cortisol for a second. But you were you, a normal person. Not someone riddled with mental issues who needed structure. Not like Dex. Not like him.

But when you finally reached the café where Dex was waiting, you knew you should have left home sooner. You had to put yourself into his shoes. He wasn't just some guy. He loved structure, order, everything that was too neat for you.

The first thing you saw was his leg was bouncing uncontrollably. Not his betrayed eyes or his hands that were trembling against the edge of the table.

You could see his left pointer tap his phone. Its screen must have been lit up with the string of messages he’d sent. They were all short, frantic bursts that went from “Are you on your way?” to “Please tell me you’re still coming.” and you hadn't known because your phone had died on the bus.

But you had never felt so much guilt as you had when his eyes locked on you. The relief he felt when he saw your agitated face hit him like a tidal wave; but it didn’t erase the anxiety he felt internally. Those twenty minutes had stretched into an eternity of silence. He was reminded in seconds of every childhood memory where someone had promised to come back… but never did.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. It was worse than that; he looked distressed. His fear wasn’t about jealousy or suspicion. His worst fear was that maybe, this time, you had finally decided to leave him and his problems too.

"Your late." Dex couldn't even look you in the eyes, almost as if he was the one in the wrong.