She knows.

If looks could kill, I’d be long dead. Her narrowed eyes stare daggers into my soul and my fingers nervously pick at the couch. Confrontation is not her thing. So when she texted me saying she needed “to talk”, I was plenty surprised.

What would she even need to talk to me about?

She doesn’t know about last weekend. She can’t. Can she?

But then why would she need to talk about it? She’d have undoubtedly kicked me out.

She looks up and our eyes meet. I can see the repressed fury in her eyes. She knows I messed up.

She knows.

That’s it.

I should go pack my stuff and OH she’s moving her mouth and words are coming out–“and you know that you’re my favorite person on earth.” Wait, what?

“And you know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but we need to address this before we move forward,” she says, her voice devoid of any and all emotion.

“I love you–I really do–but I know what you did.”

My heart freezes and my blood turns to ice.

“I love you, but you can’t do it again.”

She puts her hands in mine, breaking me out of my trance.

“Hey, listen to me,” she stares into my eyes earnestly and I brace myself for the words that’ll shatter us.

“Baby, I love you, but you really can’t keep putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge.”

Wait––what?