Regret

“You’re leaving,” he says.

We stand outside the truck stop where we both work, the sounds of a bustling restaurant fading into the background. In this moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of us. His eyes lock onto mine…sad, searching, filled with something I’m too afraid to name.

I want to say the words. They press against my chest, burning, desperate to escape. I love you. It should be simple, but it’s anything but. The words rise to my throat and stop, held back by fear. What if I say them and he doesn’t feel the same? What if he laughs, brushes me off, or looks at me with pity?

But his eyes… his eyes tell me something different. There’s a sadness in them, a longing that mirrors my own. Still, the risk is too great. I’m too broken.

I’m a runner. I always have been. It’s easier to run than to stand still and face what might be. Rejection, indifference, or worse, love I’m not ready to receive. Love demands trust, and trust is a fragile thing I’ve never learned how to hold.

I want to reach out, to touch him, to bridge the chasm of silence between us. But even that feels impossible. My fingers stay at my sides, trembling with everything I can’t bring myself to do.

This is the second time I’ve run from him. And I know, deep down, it will be the last. The first time, I avoided him for months, and I saw how much it hurt him. But I couldn’t explain what I felt then, just as I can’t now. When he finally found me, when we touched, I hoped he understood. I hoped he felt the love I couldn’t say aloud.

But now, standing here, I know I’ll walk away again. The feelings are too much. The words stay locked inside, tangled in fear and uncertainty.

I take one last look at him, at the hurt and hope etched into his face, and then I turn. I walk away, as I have so many times before, knowing I’ll keep running whenever the emotions become too overwhelming.

And as I leave, I wonder if I’ll ever stop.