It's not a plea for me to stay.
It's him protecting himself from me.
The room tilts. My chest feels too tight, like I can't get enough air. I want to say something—anything—that will undo this. That will rewind five minutes and let me walk in here with a different answer.
But I don't have a different answer.
Istand there, waiting. For him to soften. To reach for me. To ask me to stay even though we both know I can't promise I will.
He doesn't.
His expression is closed now. Guarded. The same way it was when I first came back and he didn't trust me yet.
I did this. I put those walls back up.
So I turn toward the door.
My legs don't feel steady. Each step away from him is harder than the last, like I'm walking through water. Or maybe quicksand. Something that's pulling me under.
My hand finds the door handle and I stop.
I don't know what I'm waiting for. Some last word. Some sign that this isn't really happening.
"This wasn't how I wanted it to go," I manage without turning around.
My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Neither did I, Hazel," he says.
I open the door. The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, and I suck in a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs.
I don't look back.
I can't.
Because if I see his face right now—if I see what I'm doing to him—I'll break completely. And I need to make it to my truck first.
The gravel crunches under my boots. Each step echoing too loud in the quiet.
I climb in. Pull the door shut. The click of the latch sounds final.
My hands shake so hard I can barely get the key in the ignition.
The engine turns over, too loud, and I force myself to put the truck in reverse. To back out of his driveway. To leave.
I make it to the end of his road before the tears come for real.
Then I can't see anything through them.
I pull over onto the shoulder and just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest.
I just lost the only thing that made staying feel possible.
No—that's not true.
I didn't lose it.
I walked away from it.
