He couldn’t even look at her. Her heart sank, and she finally allowed herself to stare dejectedly at her feet. She knew that this wasn’t going to be some sort of happy confession, knew that he wouldn’t handle it well, but she’d thought that he’d at least have the decency to say something, anything, to at least look at her. Regardless, they were friends, and he owed her more respect than this.
She wasn’t sure why she stayed there. Maybe it was out of stubbornness, some bizarre hope that if she remained there with him, he’d be forced to finally acknowledge her, even if whatever he had to say would fail to make her feel any better. Or maybe she was just too stunned by what had just happened; just because she had known to some extent what was coming didn’t make it any easier to cope with. She still hadn’t been prepared for how much this would hurt. But the fact remained that she could only stand there, and those few moments felt like an eternity.
She looked up as he spoke, and had he been looking at her, he would have seen her eyes narrow angrily. That was it? He just asked her to fucking leave? He couldn’t even be mature enough to give her some sort of proper response? And even that he couldn’t say to her face. Her self-pity was replaced with anger, and she happily greeted it, a much easier emotion to deal with. She could handle wanting to scream at him, and it was a much more familiar, natural response. It was normal, really, for them, and therefore far better than expecting to cry.
And it made it easier to walk away.
She reached for her bag, resisting the urge to snap at him. But however temping that may be, it’d ultimately serve so purpose, and she no longer wanted to stay there with him for any longer than necessary. And part of her was simply afraid of what she’d do if she stayed. She looked up at him one more time, willing him to turn around but he did no such thing. She exhaled again as she turned towards the door. “Yeah.” A pause. “Bye, James.” She didn’t look back at him as she walked away.