You looked so uncomfortable when I saw you last, always dipping out of conversations to the kitchen for another drink, and outside in the streetlight it was freezing cold. Found you sitting in your accord. You were thinking about going home. I’m sorry that fate dropped this hardship in your lap. I know it’s not my place to ask. You’d say something cryptic and then look away. You were so quick to bring it up, but more so to brush it off. As wrapped up as you were in tragedy, I knew the real source of your pain was more consistent, more mundane. I’m sorry that fate dropped this hardship in your lap. I know it’s not my place to ask, but I’ve noticed more than you might think that I have:
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