She nodded.
“He did well,” she said.
We didn’t exchange numbers.
We didn’t make plans to meet again.
Some stories don’t resolve in a single conversation. Some relationships don’t rebuild themselves in an afternoon.
But as she turned to leave, she looked back at me one last time.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For being okay,” she replied.
That night, my father and I sat together on the couch, the same place where he had told me the story so many times before.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
I thought about it.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I am.”
He nodded, though I could tell he was still watching me carefully, ready to catch anything that might fall apart.
“Do you regret it?” I asked suddenly.
“Regret what?”
“Stopping that night,” I said. “Choosing me.”
He looked at me as though the question itself was impossible.
“No,” he said. “Never.”
“Even though it changed everything?”
He smiled.
“It didn’t change everything,” he said. “It showed me what everything was supposed to be.”
