If she hadn't filled my head with all that big-sister-sage crap, I wouldn't be standing here now, contemplating whether to knock or sprint back to my car like a coward.
I never even told her I was coming. She texted earlier, asking if I'd changed my mind. I ignored it. Of course I ignored it.
And yet somehow, after leaving Naples and checking on Mom, I found myself driving straight here.
At least Mom's doing better. Still stuck in that cast, but the doctor said she can finally ditch it next month. She looked good, really good—smiling, cracking jokes, bossing me around like usual. She kept insisting I go back early, that I should stop hovering and go have fun with my friends instead of babysitting her.
So, I did. I packed up earlier than I planned, drove back to Miami, and now—God help me—I'm here.
And honestly? Sam wasn't the only culprit.
The drive back to Miami didn't help. I stupidly queued up Taylor Swift's newLife of a Showgirlalbum—because apparently I enjoy emotional self-harm—and right when I hit the turnpike, Track 6 starts playing.
Ruin the Friendship.
Of course it did.
By the first chorus, I was a mess. Full-on crying, ugly sniffles, sleeve-and-steering-wheel multitasking. I must've looked insane to everyone driving past me, but whatever.
That song hit something—something stupid and buried and three years old—that I've spent way too long pretending doesn't matter anymore.
Because the whole song is basically one giant what-if.
What if you say nothing?
What if you never confront the truth?
What if you let something that once meant everything fade because you never asked the hard questions?
And as I'm sitting there, belting out lyrics like my life depends on it, it just...clicked.
I don't want to be seventy one day, lying in some fancy retirement home, wondering why I never asked him what happened.
Why I never let him explain.
Why I walked away without giving him a chance to speak—even if whatever came out of his mouth turned out to be absolute garbage.
I don't want to regret not knowing.
So somewhere between verse two and my third emotional breakdown, I made a decision—a stupid, brave, probably-ill-advised decision.
I'm done running.
If closure is the finish line, then hearing him out is the first step. Even if his explanation is nonsense. Even if it changes nothing. Even if it hurts.
I owe that to the girl I used to be.
The one who loved him like an idiot.
The one who stopped sleeping for a week after everything fell apart.
So yeah. Blame Sam.
Blame Taylor Swift.
Blame Track 6 for emotionally waterboarding me on I-75.
Which is how I ended up here—outside The Pond—heart pounding, eyes still a little puffy, pretending this is what mature adults do.
