I am that man.
The one who didn’t want much,
just to feel her warmth again.
To hear her laughter rise in the space between silence.
To know, in the briefest of moments,
what it felt like to matter
to someone whose presence lit the room
before she even stepped inside.
She gave me that.
A scent.
A flicker.
A heartbeat I could almost call home.
And what did I do?
I ran.
I didn’t walk. I didn’t pause.
I ran.
Because when the heart panics,
it doesn’t ask questions.
It doesn’t weigh consequences.
It chooses escape.
And like a fool,
I followed.
If there were an eighth deadly sin,
it would be this:
abandoning what your soul begged you to protect.
I would trade anything for one more day -
not to convince her,
not to change the past -
but to give.
A gift. A meal. A gesture.
Something small.
Something that says:
“I remembered you today, and it made me better.”
I want to know she gets home safe.
I want to know she eats.
I want to know if the world has been kind to her,
even when I was not.
But here’s the cruel twist in the story -
The act of disappearing
might’ve been the kindest thing I ever did.
Because maybe
just maybe
my love, in its raw and broken form,
was a weight she no longer needed to carry.
And if that’s the truth,
then I’ll carry it alone.
Not to win her back,
but to finally honor her
the way I couldn’t
when she stood in front of me.