Two years ago, I was at my lowest.
Didn't even know how to look a person in the eye, let alone… let alone let someone in. And then I met her.
Twenty-one years on this earth, not a single real relationship to my name. But something about her…Right away, I knew.
Her name was Hope.
I almost laughed when she told me. Or cried. Same thing, really.
I thought I was too weird. Too broken. So I stayed back. Watched from a distance. Memorized the way she laughed, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
And one night, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I made a promise to myself, in the dark, where no one could hear me.
"I'm gonna get better. And then… I'm gonna go to her."
And I did. Or… I tried to.
Little by little, piece by piece, I pulled myself up. Got stronger. Got quieter in my head. Started to feel like maybe… maybe I deserved something good.
And now?
Now I'm ready.
But here's the joke life decided to play on me.
She's leaving. Two months. And then she's gone. Forever.
So what do I do?
Do I walk up to her — now, finally, after all this time — and try to make something out of these last handful of weeks?
Or do I stay back. One more time. Watch her leave. And let the silence be my answer.
Because I've gotten really good at that.
Watching from a distance.
But I'm so tired of it.
So tired.