It’s intimate. Too much.
It’s impossible.
I suddenly pull away, as if she’d hit me, staggering, disorientated. And I know the alcohol has nothing to do with it.
She looks at me, her brow furrowed, confused and offended by my gesture. But I can’t do anything else.
I take a few steps backwards, terrified by our closeness, by the longing that still pulls me towards her.
She put her hands on me, made me feel like I could still be part of something. But the memory of who I was, and the fear of being shut out once again is stronger than anything else. Without a word, I run out of the café, leaving her alone.
I sprint down the street, faster than I ever do on the field. I run away, a coward; I escape my desire to feel something real, to let another woman make me forget who I am. I’ll never let her, or anyone else, dictate my life.
