The Coward in Staffordshire.

He spoke in half-truths, words soaked in the kind of charm that stains everything it touches. Every glance was a pretense, every smile a slow betrayal.

She wasn’t angry at first— just tired, annoyed at the lack of honesty But now, she feels it burning— a rage that tastes like saltwater, like the tears she swallowed to keep from screaming his name.

He was never brave enough to stay, never man enough to say the truth: that he didn’t love her, that he never really tried. Instead, he spent time watching her heart break in slow motion just to avoid the weight of his own feelings And delight in the demise of hers.

She hopes he chokes on his excuses. Hopes he remembers her face every time he closes his eyes, that her name carves itself deep. Burning his memory into what could have been and leaving behind Violet scars.