Alex held back his anger that day. Kept his manners. Answered every question.
But afterward, he told me, "Stella, honestly? Your friend isn't great. If you keep hanging around someone like that—" His face twisted with disgust. "I'm afraid you'll get dragged down too."
We fought over it. Had a cold war for days.
Naomi told me the same thing from her side. "Someone who can't even tolerate the people closest to you—how can you trust him with your whole life? Stella." She was so earnest. "Break up."
From then on, those two couldn't stand each other. Every time they met, they'd start fighting.
Now, looking back on these seven years—
I felt like a joke.
I came home from the office. Just as I was about to push the door open, a hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me back.
"Stella, why aren't you answering my calls?"
Alex reeked of alcohol. His tone was wounded, like an abandoned puppy.
"I couldn't get through to you. I waited at the restaurant forever, and you never came. Did I say something wrong?"
He leaned in.
I stepped back. Broke free from his grip.
"You're drunk."
His expression froze—like he'd suffered some enormous injustice.