Alet’s-not-think-too-hardidea.
But now I’m thinking,
which is the fucking problem.
Because if I go in there tonight…
If I sit across from him and look at his stupid mouth—remember what it felt like to kiss him, touch him, to be normal for five fucking seconds—I’m done.
I won’t be able to walk away.
I’ll want more.
And more.
And if I want more, I have to talk.
I'll have to explain who I am, what I’ve done.
He’ll look at me different,
and I won’t survive it.
I know I won’t.
But worse? I could hurt him.
Iwillhurt him.
The pain you can't walk off.
The pain you carry.
It’s guaranteed.
And the longer this goes on,
the worse it’s gonna be.
Every second I stay,
every word I say,
every text,
every dumb fucking smile,
it’s only intensifying how miserable it will be when it finally ends.
This is my last chance to walk away.
I spin on my heel like I’m dodging a sniper.
No time to call for a car, I need the nearest cab,
the fastest exit, the nearest airport.
I’ll delete his number.
