I saw her today.
Same café. Same laugh. But she wasn't laughing with me.
She looked good—free in a way I never could make her feel.
I used to be the reason behind that smile.
Now I'm just a man behind a windshield, gripping the wheel like it might take me back in time.
But even I know—it wasn't the world that broke us.
It was me.
She sat across from him like she belonged there. Not in a way that screamed passion, but in that soft, steady way you lean into when you feel safe.
I remember when she looked at me like that.
I remember when I used to earn it.
The worst part about hurting someone isn't the silence afterward. It's the memory of their voice before they gave up.
And I remember hers so clearly—gentle, patient, getting quieter each time I came home smelling like bad decisions.
God, I used to think she'd never leave.
That love made me bulletproof.
But I forgot—love isn't armor. It's a gift. And I returned it broken.
I used to have her.
Before the bars and the late nights. Before the slurred excuses.
Before the version of me that only ever loved himself showed up and ruined everything.
And now she's here—glowing, graceful, and so far from mine.
And I'm outside, staring through a fogged windshield at what I once held in my hands,
thinking only one thing:
When I had you... why wasn't that enough?