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Something to knock the edges off. Something to quiet the mess in my head. Something to help me stop seeing Cruz’s face when I told him I didn’t see a future for us.

But no.

I need my mind clear.

I need to remember everything.

Even what hurts.

“Just a bottle of water, please.”

“Of course.”

I sit near a window.

The flight attendant brings the water. “We’ll be taking off shortly. Please let me know if you need anything else.”

I nod. “Thank you. I will.”

Then I’m alone again.

Alone in a lush leather seat with a bottle of water I can barely open because my hands are shaking.

The plane begins to move.

Slow at first.

Then fast.

We rise.

I look out the window.

Bogotá stretches beyond the glass.

Parts of it are beautiful.

I press my fingers to the window.

Below me, the city begins to shrink.

I tell myself this is freedom.

I tell myself I’m lucky.

I tell myself I’m going home to the people who love me, and that’s the only thing that matters.

I tell myself Cruz made his choices, and I made mine.

I tell myself what happened between us was not love.

It was fear.

Intensity.

Proximity.

A trauma bond.