The Guilt of Realization

She threw back her head and swallowed. Almost as if the faster she shot her

whiskey, the faster her words would fall into existence. I slipped into her green

eyed gaze. I pretended not to notice how wet it was. She leaned hard against

me in her own defeat. "Do you know what it's like to waste a good person's

time? No, no. Even better. Do you know what it's like to hurt a good person?" I

couldn't tell if her questions were directed at me or the sky. "And you know

they're good too. Because even though you see a lot of their mistakes that most

people don't, you see them in these moments, these purely good moments that

have nothing to do with you. It's when they're laughing with their friends, their

family. It's when they pick up their guitar and get lost for an hour. When they're

reading and they smile to themselves. When they make a kid smile. . . And no

matter how many excuses you cling to, eventually you let the truth seep in. It

was you. You were the one who didn't know how to love someone. You were the

one who didn't know how to treat them right. And even worse, really, you knew it

all along. Even with the best of intentions, you knew what risk you were running

by staying. How do you even say sorry for that?". I took her hand and felt the

guilt, the guilt of realization. No words can give another person back their lost

time. No words can really mend.