The room goes very still.
I don’t know what this will cost. But it’s working.
I hear him move again—slow, measured footsteps. He’s pacing now. Not circling me. Keeping his distance.
“She wasn’t afraid of you at first,” I say gently.
Silence.
“You didn’t start this by hurting her,” I continue. “You started it by wanting her to stay.”
His breath stutters.
“She made promises,” he says suddenly. “She said she understood me.”
I keep my voice soft. Steady. “She wanted to.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No. She liked the idea of me. Until she didn’t.”
I tilt my head slightly, as if that makes sense—even though my heart is hammering.
“People confuse intensity with safety,” I say. “Especially when they’re young.”
That lands.
“She said I was too much,” he mutters. “That I watched her like she was going to disappear.”
My chest tightens.
“You were afraid she’d leave,” I say, listening carefully to his tone. Not accusing. Just naming it.
Another pause.
“She ran,” he says again, quieter now. “Like I was something to escape.”
I let the silence stretch this time. Let him sit with it.
“That kind of rejection rewires you,” I say finally. “It makes you believe the next one will do the same—unless you stop it first.”
He stops pacing.
“You think you’re different?” he asks.
Play it smart. He’s volatile.
“I think I’m honest,” I say. “I tell people when they scare me. I don’t pretend it’s something else.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself.
“She got away,” I continue. “She rebuilt her life. Whatever she felt for you—whatever happened—it didn’t end her.”
The air in the room shifts again.
I push forward, the words rushing out. “You don’t want my story to end the way hers almost did.”
Then he says, very quietly, “You talk like you know her.”
I swallow.
