This much is clear: you don’t want to see the mess. The aftermath. The aftershocks. The absolute wreck of split atoms and shattered everything. The consequences might make you change your mind, so you don’t look. You don’t acknowledge. You leave without a word, shut – not slam – the door, careful not to leave any clues or raise any alarms. You don’t want to be there when the wolves come from the inside, teeth gnashing and without mercy. You don’t want to witness what you have made out of this, turning hope into poison like a magic trick. Easy misdirection.
If you keep moving, none of it matters. Not of it has weight. The girl is like the wind, anyway – everywhere and nowhere, unable to be quantified. If her heart has no bones, maybe she’ll survive it. You tell yourself that she’ll be fine, if you don’t look. Close your eyes and all the bad things disappear – this is a game we carry from childhood. It is easy to let go if you don’t stick around for the impact. You pushed her off a cliff, and maybe she flew. Maybe that’s just how she gets her wings. Maybe you’re doing her a favor, saving her from herself, offering her kindness in disguise. It’s the best thing, really. Or is it the easiest? The less disruptive, the least possible collateral damage. She weighs less than she ever did, right? Doesn’t even register on the scale. Of course, you never bothered asking about the knives. You did not stop to wonder about the burden of guilt – how some people ingest it like sorrow. How blame has such sharp claws. No matter. She didn’t mean anything to you, anyway. How many people have you told that lie to, convinced it sounded like the truth?
If you never tell her goodbye, it’s the same as not leaving. And if she never explained every single way she loved you, maybe she never did. I mean, really – who can trust feelings these days? And you were never really hers to begin with – there was never any real evidence, certainly no contract. She was always going to be just a secret.
So, go on then – run.