He told me once that I'd saved his life more times than I could imagine. And I laughed it off.

It wasn't that I didn't believe him. I did believe him. Maybe I wasn't supposed to. I feel like in romantic movies or YA books the amazing heroine never quite believes the hero when he says lovely, wonderful things about her. Like, she ducks her head and smiles and looks confused and adorable all at the same time because she's amazing but she doesn't know it. Maybe that was the response I was supposed to have. But I'm not a heroine. So I did believe him. I believed him so much it hurt.

I wished he hadn't said it. I think sometimes, things can go on being real for years and years, maybe even eons, but they don't feel that way. They don't have to be real until they're actually said out loud. Until they're acknowledged. This was one of those things. It had been true the whole time, but once he said it, it became real. The second he said it, I wanted it to be a lie. Because if I had enough power to save his life, I had enough power to ruin it. And I didn't want that.

It wasn't just that I didn't want it. I couldn't handle it. Everything about that thought made me want to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Because, plain and simple, I'm not smart or good enough to have that kind of power, with anyone. It makes me nervous to mean that much to someone, even just for a short period of time, because in a way, that kind of thing never stops. That version of them, that part of them that loved me enough that I could “save” them, will never quit loving me. That part of them... that precious bit of their heart they were willing to give me, is mine to break now. And it will never stop being mine. Years from now, I'll still have a tiny piece of that person's heart, tucked away in a back drawer somewhere, because that version of themselves, the person he was the exact second he said those words to me, never wanted it back.

I'm not that good of a person. I'm not fishing for compliments when I say that, it's the absolute truth. I can be petty, flighty, cruel, and self-centered. It's not just that I have trouble trusting other people, I have trouble trusting myself. To the point where I'm always amazed when someone else does, when somebody is willing to be that vulnerable with me. Because I'm not above breaking hearts. And that scares me to death.

Sometimes when I run, I'm running from someone or something. A challenge I don't want to face. A conflict I can't think how to resolve. A messy conversation I just don't want to get into. I run a lot. It's not something I'm proud of. But more often then not I'm not running away from something. I'm running towards something. Myself. My petty, cruel, terrified little self. Because, despite the fact that I'm such a dysfunctional mess sometimes I don't even know which end is up, I know I'm the only one who can really handle me. All my messy thoughts. All my broken pieces. I know just how deep my scars go. I know all the ugly little secrets I keep hidden from the rest of the world on a daily basis. I was there for every petty thought, every muttered curse, every hurtful jab. I know what a mess I am. I already know the worst, so I can never really let myself down. I can never disappoint myself. And I can't say the same for anyone else.

People think they get me. And hey, maybe they do. I don't claim to be some mysterious enigma. But sometimes I wonder if people really see me, or if they just see the reflection of me in the words I say. In the way I dress. In the way I laugh. Do they see me? Or do they see the illusion. The magic mirror that reflects back to them whatever they want to see. Do they think I'm a good person because I am a good person? Or because they just can't bear to think they've put their trust in the wrong person... again. Maybe the only reason I'm their answer is because they couldn't take any more mistakes.


He told me once that I'd saved his life more times than I could imagine.

I laughed. And then I ran. Back to safety. Back to loneliness. Back to myself.