To Live In Our Separate Worlds
On the day I was supposed to get engaged to my childhood sweetheart, Noah Pratt, I escaped.
As I flew out of the country, I deleted all forms of contact with him.
Six years later, I had to return to oversee the moving of my parents’ graves.
At the entrance to the cemetery, I bumped right into Noah.
He gripped my wrist while gazing at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Why did you run away?” he asked. He had grown very thin. Heavy bags were under his eyes. It was as if haunting dreams had plagued his nights.
“Because I didn’t want to marry someone I didn’t love,” I replied.
He swayed on his feet as if the rug had been swept from under him.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
But he remained silent. I waited patiently before walking past him.
I had not lied. Indeed, I had burned out that love for him in the first three years I spent overseas.