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Good or bad.

Right or wrong.

I love him.

And the realization hurts.

Not because I regret it.

I don't—no fucking way.

But because right now, with blood trickling down the side of my face and a gun pressed into my ribs, I realize how close I came to real happiness.

But this time it was me who wasted it.

The other night, he was going to propose.

I know he was.

I saw it in his eyes.

Saw it in the way he looked at me.

Saw it in the hope written all over his face.

And I panicked.

Because I was scared.

Scared to believe.

Scared to trust.

Scared he'd leave me again.

And now all I can think is—what if I never get another chance?

What if the last thing I gave him was hesitation instead of my heart?

What if the last thing he remembers is me asking him not to make promises?

My chest aches.

Tears burn behind my eyes.

But I force them back.

Not now.

I refuse to cry.

I refuse to break down.

Because I know I'm already slipping.

Already imagining the worst.

Already letting fear devour me.