He spun around when she entered the bedroom. His face was a masterpiece of rehearsed surprise. “Em? What are you—?”
“I know exactly how you get. That’s the problem.” I--39-m Not The One Sam Smith
The color drained from his face, then rushed back in a guilty flush. “That wasn’t—I was drunk. You know how I get when I’m drunk.” He spun around when she entered the bedroom
“Don’t,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. That surprised her. “I heard the voicemail, Sam. The one from O’Malley’s. The one where you explain to your friend how exhausting it is to be faithful.” What are you—
“No,” she said quietly. “We don’t fix it. I do. I patch the holes you punch in the wall. I smooth over the lies. I tell myself you’ll change. But I’m not the one who has to change, Sam.”
For three years, she had been the one who showed up. The one who forgave. The one who stayed. But tonight, she was the one who left. And as the song swelled and the headlights cut through the dark, she realized: I’m not the one, Sam. I never was. And thank God for that.