Page 91 of Too Far

For them.

We can’t go on like this.

If one of us has to break, it will be me. From where I’m standing, it’s the only way I can ever truly love her. I’d rather break both our hearts than break my girl’s spirit.

The heart can mend.

But the spirit—the soul of this woman, the very essence she fought so damn hard to resurrect by coming to Lake Chapel—won’t survive the life I’m going to lead.

Sighing, I home in on her eyelids, watching her lashes flutter as she dreams. I fight back the urge to touch her, to wake her. To make love to her again and again, until she’s burrowed so deep into the core of who I am that nothing can tear us apart.

She’s so beautiful: inside and out, body and soul.

What I wouldn’t give to walk through life admiring her, learning from her, loving her with everything I am.

For the rest of my life, I’ll keep this memory close. This moment will have to be enough.

Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be.

Maybe this is why it had to be her, and them.

Maybe this is why I never inserted myself into their group dynamic. Not fully. Why I never fit, no matter how much we all wanted it to work.

I served my purpose. I’d like to think I played a small part in reigniting her flames. I witnessed firsthand how her spirit sparked to life, then just kept glowing. I got the very best parts of her, if only for the briefest time.

No one has ever seen me the way she does. Challenged me. Made me feel so alive and so out of control.

She was worth it.

She’s so fucking worth it.

I swallow past the dread threatening to take over again. I’ve made my choice. It’s one I’d make a thousand times over to ensure she leads a long, beautiful, private life.

A life so different from the fate I’m resigned to.

I’ll trudge along without her, without them, even. After tonight, I don’t see how I can keep any of them. Because they love her. She loves them. And I love them all.

I’ll break my own heart if it means she gets some version of happily ever after.

I don’t care about the state of my heart anyway. Fractured or fragmented. Broken or tattered. None of it matters if my sacrifice fortifies her path and brings her a fraction of peace.

If my heartbreak is her salvation, then let me shatter.

Come tomorrow, she’s going to hate me, but it’s for the best. Her hatred will make it easier on all of us. It will give the fire that burns in her the outlet it needs.

That fire, painful as it may be, will feel brighter than any love I’ve ever known or will ever experience again.

I welcome her flames. Relish them.

I swore I was done calling the shots and pulling the power card. She’s my equal. She’s the best of me. She’s the best of all of it.

Come tomorrow, she’s going to hate me.

But she’ll survive.

And not just survive—she’s going to live.

I want her to live. I want her to thrive.