Phillip was a man who was hard to love, tears left to be wept by your own hands, never his

His hands would never hold yours like you held his, only a light, loose grip, so loose that if you weren’t the one clutching on, he’d walk with both hands in his pockets.

The American sat beside you on the bed, rubbing your arm as you tried not to cry at the overwhelming thoughts.

“Ya know, I’d love to stay n talk to you about it..” he trailed off, looking forwards as he stood up from the bed. “But I’m runnin’ late, love.”