“Fuck you, Spencer. Fuck you.”

I can see her tensing up now. I can see her closing in. I can see her giving up. Giving in. Letting go. It’s not about this anymore. It’s not about a random guy. It’s not about my birthday. It’s not about Danielle having feelings for me. It’s not about me not giving her everything. It’s about her. It’s about us.

It’s about all the things that refuse to work in favour for us. About all the things she fears. All the things I fear. And we both know it. But I can’t put this fire out. I can’t make out the ashes. I can’t stop the world from spinning the wrong way. I can’t turn things back. I can’t kiss it better. Neither can she. Not this time. And we’re burning up. Fading away. And I’m stirring up the flames.

“You’re sick. Get the fuck out of here. I never want to see you again. You ungrateful fucking whore. Get the fuck out of my house!”

She’s holding my hand. Nathalie. And I’m trying with all the power invested in me to shake hers. I should be saying something. I should be doing something. But I’m still watching in disbelief. I know who she is and I know where I’ve seen her before. But most of all, I know who she belongs to. And by the tiniest little frown of recognition that settles between her eyebrows she seems to remember yesterday a little too well. She seems to remember me.

So I’m letting go of her hands. My palms were getting sweatier by the second. I clear my throat in desperate need to hear anything else but this quiet tension that has now been built up between us. But she’s not looking at me with angry eyes. With loathing eyes. Just with recognition. She remembers the bathroom. She remembers what she walked into. But that’s were it stops. She doesn’t know about the fires. About spinning worlds and rainy goodbyes. I’m thinking she’s better of without it.

My mother interrupts our pleasantries. It’s the first time I’m actually grateful for her existence.

“I have a three o’clock meeting waiting in an hour so if we could just get this thing going…”