I tiptoed closer to him. "What is it?" I asked.
"I-it's…," he stammered. The piece of paper was completely crushed and hidden within his fist. He shifted uncomfortably at the spot and it made me wonder what had Alistair written that made him feel this way?
I hesitated whether to push this through or let him be. But how long should we choose to sweep the problem under the rug? Hours? Days? Heck, it could even take months if I remained ignorant.
I unfurled his fingers one by one, the fist that was without the piece of paper. Then I held his hand and looked at the eyes that were trying hard to avoid mine.
"Is what he had written that bad?"
I was not expecting a reply and yet, he answered. "No."
"Then, is there something you are afraid of?"
His eyes widened, looking almost apologetic. I drew a sad smile and rested my palm on his chest. The thumping of his heart beat was quite fast underneath.
