you should've called me
there’s a twinge of guilt nagging at him at the uttering of those words, almost like an instinct to be sorry. almost in the sense his mother yelled at him for misbehaving as a kid, yelling and warning danger over miniscule things. that anger, the yelling, all stems from a feeling of powerlessness. a lack of control over another’s actions and consequences; concern that remains unspoken but somehow still finds its way to his mind. and chances are, it was never there to begin with. just a figment of his imagination, enslaved to his desire. selfishness without decay.
you should’ve called me.
(why didn’t you? what if you ended up— )
hurt? to break someone’s spirit takes more than a busted lip, bloody nose, and few bruises here and there. “i told you, it was nothing.” indeed; a small price to pay for butting into strangers’ business. but even he; as subdued and desensitized as he is, could never cross his arms at the sight of a woman being harassed by the person she trusted most. a bold assumption to make perhaps, but the engagement ring that cut into his mouth leads him to such conclusion. plus, he took a liking to his own battered face soon enough. thought he’d never looked cooler.
“preemptively went to the hospital, too.”
his chest tightens but he’s breathing an air of non-chalance, albeit barely. it’s hard to pretend he doesn’t like appreciate the interest, but necessary. he feels safer nesting in his paranoia for now, as opposed to worrying the only person he finds himself carrying about, any further than he already has.