A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 56 | a romantic confession

I was nosey to a fault.

Elisabeth's and Dwain's first encounter was my business.

Someone with a cynical eye might say otherwise, but it won't change the fact that I'd gotten into the picture...and deep down, somewhere in my heart, by fraudulent means; I slipped and fell head over heels for a certain somebody who didn't even know about my existence.

"The truth," my lips smacked against each other and played house with the aftermath of the word, whilst its acidic taste balled down my throat in a swift gulp. "What happened that night?"

I couldn't phantom the strands of hair standing at attention all over my body like hunting spears, anticipation cartwheeling to the depths of my stomach in wait for the truth...some very offhand truth that will forever make or break me.

Perhaps, it might even paint a dark image about my nemeses, or better still, portray the unforeseen angelic side of Dwain which would reinforce the bond between us.

C'mon, that's not happening, is it?

Those were just miserable assumptions surfacing vaguely amidst my thoughts, but then, a realization of the probability of any one of them occurring randomly rose quicker than my heartbeat when Dwain's lips pulled together to address the issue.

Transfixed, I couldn't disregard the shadows in his eyes.

I was torn between holding onto hope and giving up in time before the worst could surface, but thanks to Anna's intelligent words ingrained into my subconscious, the bits of light from within me curled my free hand into a weak fist, calling on courage to take possession of my being for as long as this conversion would last.

Dwain's eyes narrowed to slits. "If you weren't stubborn, that night won't have happened."

The aura of defensiveness was long gone as the muscles around his pupils weakened, loosely concentrating on the fluctuating emotions on my cheeks, before switching to the wedding band on his finger.

He chuckled. "We won't be hurting each other as we do now. I don't know if things might have been different."

It wasn't time to point fingers, rationalizing won't get us anywhere, yet Dwain seemed to have fun playing the victim whereas some time ago (not even up to an hour), he plead guilty for every bad happening that transpired at the nightclub.

"Say something, anything meaningful, but please, don't make this situation more complicated than it seems." I couldn't stand the two facades in his attitude as chills spread to my back. "We can't rewind time to change the actions of the past, reminiscing unpleasant deeds without being vocal about it is a waste of time."

Early on in life, past experiences built my morals, letting me believe that mistakes were bound to be made.

No one was perfect.

If perfection was a thing, then there won't be humanity (the empathy factor).

Past mistakes were an invisible guide to the future, indispensable, and the secret ingredient to building morals.

The past wasn't meant to stay in the past or to be locked away.

Someone in search of relief from their past demons will speak out, search for possible solutions to the roadblocks created by their selfish actions to better the future, not stay in one's head like Dwain the whole time, grumbling about a problem that could be solved by dialoguing and taking quick action.

His lips slightly quaked open. "You claim to know it all, don't you?"

"Get over yourself," I hissed hastily, "and let the cat out of the bag."