Amelia

Christian suffers from a privileged life. Amelia just suffers. Short Story ~5000. Early 20th century Britan.

There were a lot of things in Christian’s life he had no control over. He was not willingly a creature of habit, but that did not stop Mr. White, his very blunt assistant, from waking him at exactly morning. Exactly seven every time, as he had done throughout most of his thirty two years of life. After he had a cup of tea shoved into his hand, he was given the outfit that had been picked for him to wear and told he had an hour before he was expected in the dining hall. He would take a cautious sip of the steaming tea before slowly making his way into the large bathroom connected to his bedroom. Turning on the knobs, he would wait for the water to reach the perfect temperature of not too hot, but definitely not too cold.

After a quick, but satisfying shower, he would turn to the large ornate mirror that covered the majority of his bathroom. Running his fingers through his dark black hair, he would wonder how a short night’s sleep could turn it into such disarray, and after a moment, he would search for a razor to make the short stubble that had also graced his chin over the night, vanish. He would dress quickly and finish his cup of tea before sauntering out to the dining hall and taking his usual chair. While flipping through the paper, given to him by a maid dressed in black and white, he would wait for his parents to appear.

At eight sharp, they would arrive with smiles on their faces (which were fake), their arms linked (which they hated), after supposedly having spent the night in the same room (which they didn’t), appearing to be every inch the loving, regal couple they displayed to the public (which they weren't). Christian would smile, indulging them in their parody, and give a nod indicating their presence had been noted. His mother, upon reaching her usual chair, would stand until his father came around to pull out her chair, letting her slide down gracefully. Once she was adjusted, she would turn her sharp eyes towards her son, her blonde curls bouncing at the quick movement.

“How did you sleep?” she would ask.

“I’m fine. And yourself?” he would reply, knowing his mother would respond in the same fashion. Turning his head slowly, he would repeat the same question to his father, who would, after walking around to the other side of the table, have finally sat down. He would grumble an echo of his wife’s answer before burying himself in a cup of tea and his own newspaper. Breakfast would be served, something light, and not another word would be spoken until it was finished.

“What are your plans for today, dear?” his mother would inquire to his father, her high falsetto voice failing to mask her complete disinterest. He would mumble something barely audible, and she would nod before turning towards her son asking him the same question. Usually he would give her a truthful answer; to see a movie or a play, to stay inside and catch up on his reading, or a visit to the office for an important meeting. However, there were certain days when he kept his plans all to himself.

While the numbers of things completely out of his control were mounting with the passing of each day, there were still some small, but significant, things that Christian did have control over. Every now and then he would find himself with an afternoon or night with which to occupy his time in any way he would like. Those times he used to escape to a world without suits and ties and where words and actions only came with one meaning. He went somewhere without nameless men giving him congratulations on a deal thought up and carried out by someone much smarter than him; a place void of his mother’s crude matchmaking attempts and constant reminders on his ever-advancing age; a place where his every action and word was not monitored for future recollection.

On these free days, he would have his driver take him far away from the fashionable mansions outside of town, and into the dirty, crowded downtown streets. He would catch a buggy into the seediest parts of town seeking out the drabbest pubs to be found. He would sit in the back corner, ordering a drink ever so often, and taking in all the genuine emotions surrounding him and basking in their complete indifference to him. When he was due home, he would leave reveling in the knowledge that his presence had left no imprint, but for a few more pennies in the till and a shadow in the back corner.

On those days, he could never give his mother a truthful answer, because if she ever knew, she would put a stop to it at once.

“Haven’t really decided yet,” he mumbled, giving a shrug and his eyes never leaving his plate. His mother gave a satisfied smile and began her long diatribe about the many things on her itinerary for that day, along with the judgmental slip of gossip thrown about in her list. Christian would nod and “hmm” at all the right moments, while his fingers ticked the seconds away on his leg, waiting patiently until he could retrieve the clothes he had stashed away in a bag under his bed.

Usually, he only visited a place once or twice before becoming bored and moving onto the next place. Tonight was his second trip to a little dive named “Andy’s”, and so far no one had seemed to acknowledge his presence. He found himself a nice little table in the back, with cigarette burns and stains he refused to allow himself to question. He visited the bar to pick up a mug of ale, keeping his head down and nursing his drink. About an hour after he’d arrived, a woman with bright blonde hair slid into the table next to his. Out of the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but peek at her low cut blouse, tight bustier, and short skirt with visible petticoats, and torn, patchy hose. Her dark brown eyebrows convinced him her hair was a wig. He didn’t even realize he was staring at her, until her eyes turned to meet his.

His head jerked back to face the wall, and he cursed his idiocy. He heard the screech of her chair sliding across the floor and he let out the breath he had been holding, hoping she had moved away.

“Wotcher, guv. Got a light?” He jerked his head to the side to find the woman leaning over his table. His nerves flared up, and he failed to respond. She eventually snapped her fingers and he found the nerve to speak.

“Pardon me?”

“Wot’re ya deaf? I said,” she drawled, “do ya ‘ave a light?” He blushed, and shook his head in the negative.

“I, um, no, no I do not. Sorry,” he stammered out.

“Wot a surprise.” She rolled her eyes and sauntered over to another table; his eyes unable to look away from the sway of her hips accented by the tightness of the bodice squeezing her waist to a tiny little circle. While the guys at the next table scrambled to find a lighter in their pockets, she turned and gave him a wink. He flushed, finished his drink, and scrambled out of the bar before she could make it back to her table.

On the ride back, he told Max, his driver and friend, that he was pretty sure he had just met a street walker. Max chuckled and asked what they had talked about.

“Nothing. I ran out before she could say anything.” Max’s laughter followed him all the way back to his house.

His parents went out of town the next night and he was able to sneak out once again. The place he had decided to go to on that particular night ended up being closed, and instead of calling it a wasted night, he made his way back to Andy’s. The woman he’d met the night before was there, so he made sure to sit on the complete opposite side of the room from her. He nearly had a heart attack when after a few minutes; she got up and followed him to his table.

“Got a light?” He shook his head keeping his eyes trained on his table. She was wearing a black wig this time, and tight, blue dress. Hearing her laughter, he finally looked up. “Jesus, love, yer look scared. Yer gonna be okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you for inquiring.” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Inquirin'? Well, well. Look at Mr. Fancy 'ere,” she drawled, her slow speech showing off her street accent. He winced and shrunk back into his chair. “Look, darling. I’m not a w***e or anything, so yer can stop acting like I’m going to jump yer or something. I just wanted to know more about yer, that’s all.” A bright red covered his cheeks, as he realized he had perhaps judged her far too harshly.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Wotever.” She stomped back to her table, her heels clomping across the dirty wooden floor.

During his next visit to this bar, he saw the same woman again, but this time she was wearing a long, auburn wig. He walked to the back of the bar where she was sitting and he slid down into an empty chair next to her. She gave him a curious glance, but no other sign that she even noticed him.

“I am sorry.”

“Wot for?” she said, with a smirk.

“For my behavior before. I was quite rude to you, and if you would allow me to make it up to you, I would be most grateful. Truthfully, I’ve become quite curious about your person as well.” She hid her surprise quickly, and gave him an amused smile.

“Sure, love, wotever ya want.”

“I’m-,” She held up her hand.

“Ya can stop right there.”

“Pardon me?”

“No names; I dun wanna break the illusion.”

“I’m…I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s real simple,” she said with a grin. “In the last few days, I’ve been watching ya, and I’ve decided a few things. First, you are way too 'igh-class to be visiting a dive like this. ‘ell, I bet you’d be ‘anged if yer people knew you were ‘ere.” He choked, giving her all the confirmation she needed as to just how close she was, but still, he plowed on.

“What would give you that impression?” She snubbed the butt of her cigarette out into the tray, before turning her gaze to a particular stain on the wall.

“Let’s start off with that all prim and proper accent ya got and we’ll end with those big, three-syllable words ya keep spouting off.” He started to interrupt, but she was quicker. “And don’t even get me started with the way ya dress!”

He actually looked affronted. “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“It’s clean.  It’s faded, so it’s not new, but yer don’t have a ‘ole or a piece of dirt or not’in.  No one who comes to a place like this washes their clothes that damn much.” He quickly looked away, trying to keep the embarrassment off his face.

“What’s even worse is no one ‘ere knows who in the ‘ell you are. This is a pretty small area, an’ a completely unknown pub. We get a few stragglers every now and then, but mostly it’s just us regulars. If you’d lived ‘ere for a long time, or even if you’d just moved in, someone would’a know. An’ if you weren’t from ‘ere, you wouldn’t come ‘ere, unless you didn’t know any better.”

“I don’t-,” She waved her hand through the air, ashes falling to the table, as she cut him off.

“Ya see, I dun wanna know yer name, because I like the mystery of it all. I’m just scared ya will open yer big mouth and ruin the whole thing! What if I find out yer really Barney Smith, a frigin pencil pusher who spends all of ‘is spare time reading Milton and Wilde, ‘ose mother dresses ‘im every morning, and who bar ‘ops using fancy words and a fake accent to impress women ‘oping to one day rid ‘imself of that pesky virginity. The mystery will be gone, and then wot will I spend all my damn time fantasizing about?”

Before thinking wisely about it, Christian opened his mouth to respond, and then snapped it shut. He paused for a moment, carefully deciding on a response. “Can I at least give you a fake name?”

Leaning forward on her arms, she gave him a calculating stare. It made him nervous in all the worst of ways. “No, I don’t think I could convince myself it was a fake. You don’t seem like the type to lie.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “You have just said you do not know what type of man I am! You cannot just say, ‘I don’t want to know anything about you, but here’s everything I know about you.’ That doesn’t even begin to make sense!”

Instead of responding, she just leaned back into her chair and moved her attention to a pair of roughly dressed men sitting at the opposite side of the pub. Christian turned his attention to them as well. They both sat hunched over, nursing their drinks silently. There was an air of defeat that wafted off from their hunched shoulders and gave that side of the room its own depressed mood. After a few more silent drags off her cigarette, the woman turned away from the depressing sight on the other side of the room and finally turned to look at him.

“I think I’ll call ya John.”

“John?” he asked incredulously.

“What’s wrong with John?”

“Nothing, inherently-.”

“John it is.”

“B-but,” he said, trying to fight a logic that apparently whooshed over his head, “I don’t like John.”

“No one’s supposed to like their name,” she drawled.

“But I do like my name; my real name.”

She flicked her ashes into the tray, before lifting her eyes to meet his, her lips curled into a smirk. “Then there’s something wrong with ya isn’t there.”

He found, depressingly, that he didn’t really have anything to say to that.

She gave him a few minutes to think that over, before finally speaking again. “Ya can call me Amelia, and ya can be damn sure that’s not my name.” She snubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I believe you are the strangest person I have ever met.”

“The strangest person? Nah, I’m not the strangest person ya’ve ever met. I’m just more vocal about my strangeness than most people even think about being.” She gave him a pointed look. “Then again, ya could say someone who ‘ides ‘erself behind a wig an’ a fake name is allowed to be more vocal about wotever she wants.”

Christian knew it was getting late, and knew he had to be getting back sooner rather than later, but he was already hooked on finding out more about this woman.

“I have to go,” he said, regretfully. “I’ll be back on Saturday.”

“I’ll be ‘ere.”

The rest of the week passed by in a blur and when he rushed into the pub to find her sitting at the same spot as the previous week, he felt like a little kid again and had to stop himself from skipping over to the table. Their brief meetings continued on for the next few months. He had found, for the first time since becoming an adult, someone he could talk to candidly. He could give her his opinions on anything, and she would either agree or disagree, and that was it. Her every word wasn’t a gauntlet laid down to begin a sick word game, where neither would win. She was completely honest with her words and actions and she was also very blunt about her opinions.

They even found time to talk about politics and although she wasn’t an expert, she refrained from using names, instead referring to someone as Mr. Dumbass and Mr. A*****e. He started finding himself bored out of his mind any time he wasn’t with her and began spending more and more time of his time sneaking out than actually tending to his responsibilities. He knew it would catch up to him eventually, but he just couldn’t get over how comfortable he felt around her.

She could be quite cold at times, and even dismissive, but other times she could be as open as him.

“Wot do ya think about love?” she asked one Sunday night.

“Love? Really?”

“Yes, love.” He paused, taking a sip of his coffee, the liquid swirling in the cup, like the thoughts swirling in his head.

“Well, I believe in it, if that is what you mean.”

“Not wot I meant, but it’s good to know either way.” After a few moments of silence she opened her mouth to change the subject, but he stopped her.

“There is this girl.”

Her eyes flashed knowingly and she slowly closed her mouth. Once she realized he wasn’t going to continue, she opened it again.

“Idn’t there always?”

He shot her a look that she met with a smirk and a wave of her hand telling him, ever so bluntly, to get on with it.

“My parents,” he began, speaking slowly, each word chosen as carefully as the brush of an expert artist, “like to throw parties. They’re of the belief that the more parties you throw the higher in society it makes you.” He smiled softly, letting a chuckle through. “They would be fools, of course, if it weren’t for my mother’s ability to throw exceptional parties.” He shook his head, the smile returning to a thin line. “However, my mother has decided that having a son of thirty with no ring on his finger is too much for her poor heart to bear. So, her parties have turned into nothing more than poorly-veiled blind dates set for some unsuspecting victim and me.”

Amelia smiled brightly, knowing the perils of boys and their mothers.

“Please don’t misunderstand. I have nothing against marriage per say…” he trailed off, searching for an inoffensive way to phrase his words.

“Ya just don’t want no woman telling ya wot to do?” His eyes widened in frozen shock, before shaking his head and laughing.

“Oh lord no. If that bothered me in the slightest do you think I would still live with my mother?” He laughed again, trying to think of a better way to arrange his words. “I just, well, after watching my parents shamble through a parody of a marriage for all my life, I’m less than inclined to take the plunge myself.” He paused, letting the full impact of his own words wash over him. It’s one thing to think something for so long, and it’s another to actually say it out loud. New images and thoughts rushed through his brain, and he could only come to one conclusion.

“Does that make me a coward?”

She gave him a sympathetic smile before taking a long drag from her cigarette, and blowing out the smoke. After a long breath, she finally answered.

“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “But I don’t think coward is a word ya can just throw around. That’s something definitely worth taking a look at. Whad’ya say a coward is?”

He took a moment to collect his words. “I would say that a coward is one without courage.”

“And how’d ya define courage?”

“I believe courage is ‘not the absence of fear, but the decision that something is more important than fear.’”

She nodded slightly. “So a coward would decide that fear actually is more important.” Their eyes met over the table cluttered with empty coffee mugs and plates with half eaten food; his intrigued and hers solemn.

“So…I am a coward?”

Her eyes lit up, and her smirk only enhanced the mischievous glint in her eye. “I’d say textbook.”

He choked suddenly, and she burst into a high-pitched laugh. His hand hid his smile as he waited for her to calm down.

“Ya mentioned a girl?” she asked, once her chuckles had left her.

“Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten. Every week I’m forced to speak to armloads of girls who want nothing more than a different last name, or a few extra pennies to line their already too large pockets, or another notch to add to their bedpost.” He rolled his eyes. “None of them seem to be actually interested in me. Don’t misunderstand; I can’t believe anyone actually would be,” he added modestly, and she rolled her eyes, “but they still pretend. They throw themselves around; flirting like it’s going out of style and laying it on quite thick. Then I must spend the rest of the night twirling them around the floor, as if our ancestors fought and died so that men and women, who could barely begin to care less about each other, could spend their evenings spinning each other around the floor while they could be doing something productive.”

This was the closest either of them had come to revealing what kind of life the other led, but they were both too caught up in the story to try and stop the other from ruining the illusion.

“Most of the girls prattle on and on; anything to fill the silence I guess. However, there is this one girl. I don’t even know her name, but she does the most amazing thing; she doesn’t say a word.”

“Not a word?” Amelia asked, bemused.

“Not a word. She keeps her eyes trained on the floor the whole time. It’s too daunting for me to speak, so we usually dance in silence, and then she just leaves without a word. Truthfully, I’ve never even seen her face.”

Amelia snorts, but he continues as if he’d heard nothing.

“She’s rather short and she keeps her head down the whole time, and I never really cared before, but once I realized I wanted to know what she looked like, I was too afraid to try.

“But, I do know that her hair is the most gorgeous shade of auburn I’ve ever seen. I know that she can dance extremely well. And best of all, I don’t think she wants to be there anymore that I do. In the silence, I’ve started to imagine the conversations we could have. We might speak of how pompous and fake these situations are, and how cruel our mothers are for forcing us into these situations. I dream about asking her out for coffee, maybe finding out that she hates this life as much as I, wishing for nothing more than freedom. She would detest my taste in music, and find my reading choices a bore, and I would find her relentless pessimism tedious, but it would work because we understand each other.

“We could marry to appease our mothers, starting off as good friends and ending up in love. Or maybe we finally give each other the courage we both need to get away from all the fake smiles and tediously planned words, and actually enjoy life. We would be scared, but we would be each other’s support. She would help me learn to trust again, and I could cure her of her crippling self-doubt after years of her mother’s verbal abuse.” He stopped only for a moment, the words seizing up in his throat before he finally let them pass.

“I suppose, I fancy myself in love with her.” He finally looked up, waiting to see the mockery in her eyes, only to find that she wouldn’t look at him.

“That’s pretty romantic.”

“I would say thank you, if I didn’t know that coming from you that was an insult.”

After a long silence, that scared him, she finally raised her head, her lips molded into a cruel smirk that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Ah, so ya are paying 'tention.”

Christian was taken aback for a moment when he realized that she had been sincere before, and he had cut her down. He started to apologize, but she was already ranting about the weather, and how she just couldn’t take any more of this rain, and the moment had passed.

Christian wasn’t able to come back to Andy’s until the following Tuesday, but he’d barely been there for more than a few minutes when he interrupted Amelia’s theories for why he’d been missing.

“I talked to her,” he blurted out.

“Talked to who?” she asked cautiously.

“The girl I told you about last week. I talked to her. Her name’s Catherine and she hates to dance.” His smile was threatening to burst off his face, and his leg was shaking with adrenaline.

“Oh.”

He paused, waiting anxiously for her to continue.

“Catherine?” she sneered. “Wot a stupid name.”

He glared at her, stomped out and left her fuming in his wake. He didn’t come back for nearly a fortnight, and when he finally drug himself back, preparing his apology in his head, she merely greeted him as rudely as always and went on as if nothing had happened. He was glad, since he’d found he missed her quite a lot.

While Christian was spending almost all of his free time at Andy’s, his parents were making sure he had less free time to spend. He suddenly had more work than ever, and he felt more pressure to make a decision regarding Catherine, with whom he had been spending more and more time with. Still, he had a hard time trying to make a final decision when all he could think of was the sneer in Amelia’s voice as she choked out Catherine’s name. Christian knew he would eventually have to make a decision, but for now he just wanted to keep everything the way it was now. Amelia snapped her fingers in his face to get his attention and he put the thoughts away.

It wasn’t long after that when the two separate lives he’d been living decided to collide in a most unfortunate way. It was at one of his mother’s parties, while he was making small talk with a dignitary from somewhere or another, that he was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find a woman with long golden hair and a gorgeous black and white evening gown standing next to him, her hand held out for him to clasp. His words of dismissal died on his lips when he realized it was Amelia.

“'ey love; wanna dance?” He excused the both of them and clasped her hand quite painfully, dragging her out onto the dance floor.

“How did you get here?” he growled, pulling her into a dance.

“I followed ya,” she said. He stumbled, and nearly toppled them both. “I’m just kidding, ya idiot. I saw yer photo in the paper, so I’s asked ‘round. Talked to a lady who said something about a party tonight and 'ere I am!”

“And how did you-“

“Borrowed a dress from a friend and snuck in through the back.” She paused briefly to concentrate on her feet as Christian spun her around. She gave him an apologetic shrug when the heel of her shoe slammed down on his shoe. “A few people tried to talk, but I just giggled and ‘id my face behind my ‘and, and no one seemed to question it. If I’m being ‘onest, I’m somewhat offended that worked.”

Christian took a slow, deep breath. “But what are you doing here?”

“I’m gonna make ya run away with me.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Amelia…”

“I’m serious, ya idiot. All ya ever talk about is ‘ow much ya ‘ate this life, and I’m not too keen on mine either, so what’s the problem?”

“I have responsibilities.”

“The only person ya ‘ave a responsibility for is yerself, ” she said, quite solemnly. Christian started to respond, but the sound of clapping stopped him, and he realized the dance had ended. He pulled away and immediately joined in the clapping, grateful for the excuse, while Amelia’s disappointed eyes bore into him.

“Amelia, I-,” His heart leapt into his chest when he saw his father being helped up onto a stool, and a champagne glass slid into his hand. “Amelia, please, you need to leave right now.”

“Not until ya say yer coming with me,” she huffed.

“Please, I’ll explain everything later. You just need to leave right now.”

“Attention, everyone,” boomed his father’s voice. “May I please have everyone’s attention?” Amelia’s attention, along with everyone else’s in the ballroom, turned towards Christian’s father. “I have a very important announcement to make. Christian? Has anyone seen my son, Christian?” Christian made one last plea to Amelia to leave, which she stubbornly refused, before slowly drudging his way to the front of the room.

“Ever since Christian was young, it was decided that he should take over for me at the firm, once I decided to retire. I thought about handing the firm straight to him, once he was out of school, but decided he needed a bit more time to experience the real world. I’ve waited all these years, but finally Christian has made a decision that has shown me he is mature enough to take over my place.” There was scattered applause, and Christian’s face turned bright red at the attention. When he noticed Amelia still in the crowd, his heart sank. “And that decision is the reason why we are here tonight. For Christian has found the courage to ask Miss Catherine Davidson to become his wife.” There was uproar of applause and a woman with long, auburn hair was led up to the front of the room and her hand clasped with his.

He saw Amelia’s eyes go dark, and he thought she stood out quite a bit with the people around her clapping and smiling, and her fists clenched at her side. People were congratulating him and shaking his hand and Catherine was smiling at him, but all he could see was the back of Amelia’s head as she stormed out of the room.

“I’ll be right back!” he screamed to the crowd that had built up around him, and ran out after her, leaving a large group of confused partygoers, and a concerned fiancée behind. He followed the trail of her dress down the steps and out the front door, and caught up with her on the street in front of his house.

“Amelia! I’m sorry!” She didn’t even slow down. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” She finally stopped, turning back to face him, her body cutting through the air. Her entire body was trembling with rage, her wig sliding down from the force of her turn; her faces alight with anger.

“Don’t ya feel sorry fer me, ya arsehole! Don’t ya dare feel sorry fer me! I feel sorry fer ya.” His stomach dropped at the pure rage on her face. “I was giving ya a chance to get away from all this crap, but no. You’d rather ‘ave yer money, and ‘ave yer little obedient wife who keeps her head down, and never even speaks. That’s fine, but don’t ya feel sorry fer me. You’re the one stuck with all this…” she waved her arms around, “all this s**t!”

“What? What are you talking about? How the hell did you expect this to turn out?” She turned her back to him back and continuing stomping off down the sidewalk. “Did you think we could just run off and live happily ever after? I’ve never even seen you without a wig on. Hell, I don’t even know your real name!” She stopped once more, and turned back to face him slowly. Her trembling hand reached up to remove her long blonde wig, pulling pins out here and there. Her real hair was short, cropped, and brunette. It was different than the usual long, bouncy wigs she always wore, and he thought that it suited her more.

“There ya go. Like my hair really matters, but there ya go.” She thrust the wig into his hand, and he took it unconsciously. “And ya did know my damn name, but that doesn’t matter either.” She leaned up, and he leaned in thinking she was going to kiss him, but she merely gave him a peck on the cheek. “John…No, Christian. Everybody gets one big moment in their lives that let them know exactly what sort of person they are. So ya should know, even though ya’ve broken my damn ‘eart, my only consolation is that no matter how ‘eart-broken ya’ve left me, ya will always know wot type o’ person ya are.”

She backed away, a bitter smile on her face, and hiked up her dress, her heels clicking down the street. This time, he didn’t follow her. After a few minutes, he turned and slowly treaded back to his house. His fiancée was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

“Christian? Is everything all right?” He gave her a forced smile, and nodded. She pointed at the wig in his hand. “What is that?” He stared down at the blonde wig, clutching it tightly with his pale fingers, before closing his eyes tightly and dropping it to the ground.

“Nothing, nothing at all.” When he opened his eyes, her eyes had hardened, and she obviously wanted to ask more, but she kept it inside.

He felt something tighten in his chest.

“Are you sure you are alright?”

“Fine,” he lied, placing his hand on the small of her back and leading her back up the stairs. “Everything is perfectly fine.”

Author's Note

Be as cruel as you feel you need to be, just try to leave specific examples. Improvement is the name of the game. If you made it all the way through this story, thank you so very much.