Her hair was tousled, her day-old eyeliner slightly smudged. She was wearing her favorite striped underwear and one of my t-shirts. I could see her nipples through the fabric. She was perfect. At any other time, I would have reveled in the fact that I had the right to touch her, to die inside of her if I so chose. I shivered.

“Wait, are you really doing this? Please tell me the truth.”

I heard her voice crack on the last word. I saw the anguish building behind her eyes.

I could take it back. I could take her into my arms and make it all better.

I could give her the words I had rehearsed. “It’s not you, babe, it’s me. I’m fucked up. I really need to see a therapist. You’re too good for me.”

I stared at the tears dripping onto her bare legs.

She was a good person. She’d said please.

I swallowed the log in my throat and pushed out new words.

“You’re too much for me. I can’t handle pretending to know how to be with you. And I don’t love you enough for this to be worth the effort. I’m sorry.”