Instead, I slouch and look down at my shoes.

A bead of sweat rolls off my forehead and lands on the floor.

“Because I’m afraid,” I say after a moment.

He stares at me in disbelief.

“We have been here this whole time and you haven’t even tried to go and see her?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I will, I just need more time. More courage. I don’t know. More of something.”

His anger toward me seems to dissipate but I can’t say the same thing about mine.

These last two months have been more than just a little challenging and Owen hasn’t been doing anything to make it any better.

He’s drinking.

He’s telling me what to do, no, he’s bullying me around.

I walk on pins and needles around him, afraid to say something offensive out of fear of his rage.

He has never raised his hand to me but his words hurt like hell.

And this?

Finding him here in my room going through my personal things?

What gives him the right to do that?

Oh, yes, of course, me.

I’m the one setting boundaries, or the lack thereof.

“Why were you in my room?” I ask.

My voice is soft but firm.

This conversation isn’t going to be about me answering questions for once, it’s going to be about him.

“I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “I guess I came here looking for something.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” I insist. “Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Owen says. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn't sound like you’re sorry. Not at all,” I say, shaking my head.

I run my finger over the grain of the dresser. The wood is smooth and polished. On the surface it looks pristine. But when you look a little bit closer, when you touch it, you can feel it. Some would say that these kind of imperfections make it look real, but I would argue why does life have to be all about faults and deficiencies and mistakes? Or is that just my life?

Owen and I talk for a bit but the conversation just goes in circles.

He apologizes over and over yet none of his apologies feel genuine.

Even if they were, I don’t care.

I’m tired.

I’m sick of being here with him.

Even though I just got back from an arduous hike, I go out again. The sun is still high in the sky beating down on my already tired body. I take a few sips from my water bottle, but my thirst is only quenched temporarily.

“What am I going to do?” I ask myself out loud.

The street is deserted except for one car somewhere far in the distance.

I keep walking.