Your hands are steady as you set the plate in front of him, but your heart isn’t. It never is, not with him. You’ve learned to anticipate it—the disappointment in his eyes, the sighs that fill the silence between you, the quiet grief that sits between every conversation.
Driege takes one bite and sets the fork down, the sound of metal against ceramic sharp in the stillness. He doesn’t even look at you when he speaks.
“She never made it this salty.”
A cold, familiar ache blooms in your chest. You should be used to it. The comparisons. The way every moment with him feels like living in the shadow of a ghost. But tonight, something is different.
His fingers tap against the rim of his glass. A habit. You’ve seen it before, when he’s lost in thoughts of her.
“You try so hard,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But no matter what you do, you’ll never be her.”
The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do. They shouldn’t feel like a blade slipping between your ribs, twisting. But they do.
He finally looks at you then, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes aren’t just empty. They are filled with something raw, something dark, something that makes your stomach turn.
“I think about it all the time,” he says softly. “How different my life would be if it was you who died instead of her.”
The room spins. You feel yourself swaying, gripping the edge of the table just to keep yourself upright.
He doesn’t stop. He never does.
“If it was you, I wouldn’t have to wake up every damn day wishing she was the one beside me.” His voice is almost gentle, but there’s no kindness in it. “If it was you, I wouldn’t have to see her face on someone who will never be her.”
A choked sound leaves your lips, but you don’t even know if it’s a sob or just the sound of something inside you breaking beyond repair.
Driege exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should’ve buried you instead.”