"That might be true initially," I say. "But people heal. Trauma fades. Time creates distance from the worst experiences, and eventually you'll be able to connect with someone who sees you as more than the sum of what you've survived."
"Like you do?"
The question is a trap, and we both know it. Because I do see her as more than a survivor—I see her as someone remarkable, intelligent, capable of understanding complexitythat most people never encounter. But that's exactly the problem.
"I see you as someone who's been forced to grow up too fast. Someone who deserves the chance to experience normal teenage concerns before deciding they're not worth having."
"And if I try normal and discover it's exactly as empty as I think it'll be?"
Then you come find me. Then we revisit this conversation when you're old enough to make it from a place of genuine choice rather than reaction to trauma.
But I can't say that. Can't give her hope that this might be temporary, that time and distance might change the fundamental mathematics of our situation. Because hope would make this harder for both of us, and I need her to understand that this is final.
"Then you'll have the knowledge that you tried. You'll make future decisions from a place of experience rather than assumption."
"You mean I'll have wasted years pretending to be someone I'm not, building relationships based on lies, waiting for some arbitrary moment when you decide I'm old enough to know my own mind."
Her voice is getting sharper, more cutting. She's starting to understand that I'm not just suggesting a temporary separation. I'm ending this. Permanently.
"Delilah—"
"No." She gets out of bed, wrapping the sheet around herself like armor, and I can see the exact moment when hurt transforms into fury. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me what I deserve. Don't you dare make decisions about my life without consulting me."
But I am going to do exactly that. Because some decisions are too important to be made by someone who doesn't understand all the consequences. Because I've spent seven months watching her develop into someone extraordinary, and I won't be the thing that prevents her from becoming everything she could be.
"This was goodbye," I say quietly. "Last night, this morning—it is goodbye. I should have made that clear before we…."
I can't finish the sentence. Can't reduce what happened between us to past tense when her skin still carries my marks, when I can still taste her on my lips.
The silence that follows is deafening. I watch her face cycle through disbelief, hurt, rage, and something that might be betrayal. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady despite the tears I can see building in her eyes.
"You planned this. You came here knowing you were going to fuck me and leave."
"No. I came here hoping I'd have the strength to walk away before anything happened. But you're…." I stop, because explaining how irresistible she is won't help either of us. "I lost control. I'm taking it back now."
"Taking control." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Just like every other man in my life. Taking control of my choices, my future, my body. Making decisions for me because I'm too young, too damaged, too stupid to know what I want."
The comparison to her father hits like a physical blow, because it's not entirely unfair. I am taking control away from her, making unilateral decisions about her future. The fact that my motivations are protective rather than predatory doesn't change the fundamental dynamic.
"It's not the same thing," I say, but the words sound hollow even to me.
"Isn't it? You're both men who had power over me and used it to get what you wanted. The only difference is you feel guilty about it afterward."
The accusation cuts deep because it carries enough truth to wound. I did use the power dynamic between us—my age, my experience, the way she looks up to me—to justify taking what I wanted. And now I'm using that same dynamic to justify walking away.
"I'm trying to protect you."
"Again: fromwhat?"
From becoming like me. From learning that violence can be addictive, that the line between justice and revenge disappears when you're the one holding the blade. From discovering that love and destruction can occupy the same space in a human heart.
"From making choices that will define your entire life before you're old enough to understand what you're choosing."
"I understand perfectly. I'm choosing you. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing the only relationship I've ever had where I don't have to perform or pretend or hide the parts of myself that make other people uncomfortable."
And that's exactly why I have to end it. Because she's not just choosing me—she's choosing the darkness I represent, the violence I've normalized, the philosophy that says some problems can only be solved with carefully applied force. She's choosing to become someone who could do what I do, and I can't let that happen.
Not to her. Not to someone who still has the chance to be something better.
