sunlight piercing through black curtains.

If it comes to a point where you can't stand your own words, where love poetry transforms into farce, where you hate the way you rationalize your decisions... well, then, I think it's time you swallowed all your dumb little romantic notions and bought that plane ticket.

She wishes it were so easy, the way those words flow from his mouth, the way his mind must work in order to shut her out. She wishes she could take it back, sharing so much of herself. But then she realizes he knows nothing of her past. He doesn't even know the names of the people who have made her into who she is. He doesn't know the quantities, only vague qualities that she hints at behind juice glasses filled with vodka and orange.

His intransigence, his pride, who knows what explains any of it. But he knows it isn't worth waiting around for. She knows it isn't worth regretting her youth.

The back and forth goes forth and back until the phone calls stop coming and the memories fade and she's sitting on the grass in front of her high school, thinking of the regrets she had back then and how the regrets she has now only keep piling, keep building, keep chipping away at her strength. She is afraid they will reveal the girl behind her hard exterior. She is afraid of sharing the past with anyone, afraid of moving forward without pieces of her past, afraid to engage in the present for fear of regretting the past in her future.