When I Stopped Running
The one who wanted to own me, and who couldn't stand seeing me happy without him.
The man I'd spoken to today wasn't that man. He was something else, and one I wasn't ready to name.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped out into the lobby.
"Regret," I whispered, the right word suddenly coming to me.
Regret was far more dangerous than hatred. Hatred was easy to walk away from. I'd walked away from hatred a thousand times.
But regret had a way of making you look back. I looked toward the elevators, toward the man I'd spent two years trying to forget, and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, forgetting him wasn't possible.
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