“Listen, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, sugar, but this…” Arthur lightly gestured with his hand between the both of you; you knew what he was referring to.

“It just… ain’t meant to be.” The words that fell from Arthur’s mouth felt like a pierce through your heart; you should’ve seen this coming. It’s 1899 and being a homosexual was practically a death sentence—especially if anyone found out. What were you expecting?

The lantern on the barrel next to the dingy cot you both sat on filled the room, the light flickering over your faces, along with yours and Arthur’s knees touching.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur repeated quietly; guiltily; his calloused hand gently grazed yours as he spoke.