I stared at him. Brows furrowed. Cheeks turning pink with anger. Wrinkles on his forehead. The smile that was once formed is replaced with a frown almost as if his face was meant to hold that expression. We stood there just staring at each other. His lips parted and started to move like rapid fire. Words shot out of his mouth, but I heard nothing. Pure silence. His lips kept moving, forming sentences that I could not interpret. His hands moved around frantically emphasizing his words. I looked at his eyes. They were an ocean blue. Not the murky disgusting ocean water of New York, but the stunning blue of the waters in Cancun. Tears were forming in them. They turned glassy. But I could still clearly see the sadness that they held. The pain he had gone through. The suffering he had endured. And here I am adding to his sadness with my mistake. I hated myself for that. For making him endure more agony. For taking him away from the feeling of happiness. I’m brought out of this trance as he wraps his hands around both of my arms and shakes me back and forth. An action that felt nauseating. “I hate you,” he says with anguish in his voice. He stabbed me, metaphorically speaking.