But I don’t.
My second mistake.
I stand there instead, letting the distance hold. Allowing the old instinct to take over.
Wait. Let it pass. Let her go. Easier that way.
Safer, too.
The thought comes fast, familiar as breath.
You’ll ruin it anyway.
I’ve lived with that one long enough it barely feels like a thought anymore. Just truth.
Things like her don’t stay. Things like her don’t choose men like me.
And if they do… they leave.
They always leave.
I watch her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze still on the horse.
“I should go,” she murmurs. “Before I change my mind.”
My stomach drops. Something in that sentence sounds wrong. Too final.
She steps back from the fence, turning. That’s when I see it. The bag slung over her shoulder.
Ready. Packed. Gone.
The world narrows.
Everything I told myself a second ago—about distance, about waiting, about letting it settle—collapses under one sharp realization.
She isn’t staying long enough for me to figure this out.
She’s leaving because of me. Because I let her walk away once already.
The gelding shifts at the fence, head lifting like he’s noticing the change, too.
You’re doing the same thing to her.
The thought hits hard and clean.
Half trust. Not trust at all.
I’m not protecting anything. Or preserving control. Nope, just repeating the same tired loop.
Letting something good walk out because it feels safer than putting skin in the game. Easier than taking a chance.
I exhale once, rough.
That’s the moment. The one that splits everything in two. Before and after.
I push off from where I’ve been standing and start walking. Each step feels like breaking through something that’s held for years.
The closer I get, the clearer it becomes.
