He looked at me; those big, sad eyes screaming for forgiveness, giving me an apology he couldn’t possibly put into words.
Because after what he did-no, he couldn’t.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him ever again, and I told him so. Then I ran home, where maybe I could blanket my mind once again.
The underdog: or was he?
Was he really an underdog, was the question. Did he really lose? It made sense, with that scrawny stick figure he had, but she’d seen him, too-seen him run miles, beat up a bully four times his size on the street to protect his sister.
Was it an act? Why?