She never said it first. Not to him, not to anyone.
She didn’t run. She didn’t lie. She looked back at him, at his hopeful, unguarded face, and said the bravest thing she’d ever said: “I know. Me too.” the l word
Because love, she’d learned, was just the pretty prelude to leaving. Her father had loved her—he’d said so, often, with his big hands on her small shoulders. Then he left. Her best friend in high school had loved her—wrote it in silver ink on the back of a yearbook photo. Then she left for college and never returned a single call. Even the dog she’d raised from a puppy loved her, and then one Tuesday afternoon, his heart simply stopped. Love didn't prevent leaving. Love seemed to guarantee it. She never said it first
Not upward this time. Downward.
