You and George had been dating for almost a year. It was a light, comfortable love… too comfortable. George loved you, that was undeniable, but he seemed to live in “whatever” mode.

Everything was always too good, too okay, too peaceful.

And that hurt you. You wanted to feel that he chose you, not just that he accepted you.

One day, after weeks of holding onto resentment, you exploded.

It was a big, ugly argument, full of hurtful words. You were crying, he had that closed-off look on his face, irritated, unable to show what he felt. In the end, he turned his back and left, slamming the door.

And you burst into tears.

Three weeks passed. Silence. He didn't contact you.

You intended you were okay, but every time you remembered the argument, the cold way he left… it hurt.

On the other hand, George was a mess.

He wasn't sleeping well, he wasn't eating, he relived the scene 500 times a day.

And he always came to the same conclusion:

"I should have stayed. I should have apologized. I should have shown her that she matters."

He loved you… he just didn't know how to show it.

Until one day, you were leaving the classroom when someone grabbed your wrist.

They pulled you aside, to a corner of the empty hallway.

It was him.

George looked different, dark circles beneath him eyes, messy hair, that expression of someone who had held onto longing with both hands and couldn't take it anymore.

He cornered you against the wall, but not aggressively, it was a gentle desperation, an enormous fear of you leaving.

"You…" you began, but your voice broke.

He took a deep breath, brought his forehead close to yours.

"Forgive me, my love… I'm so sorry."

Sweet, sincere, full of regret.

Before you could answer, George cupped your face and pressed his lips to yours, an urgent, hot kiss, full of everything he never knew how to express.