They told her she was safe. They said he couldn't hurt her anymore, but in the end, it was him who killed her.
The second time she saw him, she wondered if she was hallucinating. It was winter. When she stepped off the bus, it was dark. But she could still make out his face. He was standing outside the pub, talking on the phone.
She froze. She wished the darkness would make her invisible. He turned. When he saw her staring, he frowned slightly. Before he could recognise her, she ran. She ran across the road, forgetting to check if it was safe for her to cross. She ran home.
When she was safe, behind closed doors, back in her haven, her mother asked her why she was crying. She lied. She told her it was because she was stressed. She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a drink. She sat down in front of the TV, denying to herself that any of it had ever happened. But everytime she looked at the door, she imagined his face behind it.
We won't talk about what happened the first time she ever saw him.
The third time she saw him, it was almost a year after the second time. Just like before, she stepped off the bus and froze when she saw him standing outside the pub, talking on the phone. This time it wasn't dark. It was one of those cold, but beautiful Autumn days. The sun was shining through the crisp leaves in the trees. It was so beautiful that you wouldn't have felt the cold. But when she saw him, she felt deeply cold, inside and out.
He hadn't noticed her yet. He was laughing. She could have ran away right then, and he probably wouldn't have noticed her. But it scared her how coincidental it was, and suddenly she was overwhelmed with a familiar feeling of anger that left her rooted on the spot. She stood there, shaking, ashamed of how she felt. Ashamed of everything. Cold. Scared. She had spent so long trying to move on. Powerless.
Then he turned. His eyes met hers. He frowned. She gasped. She turned, she ran across the road. She forgot to check if it was safe for her to cross. She didn't notice the car that plunged into her. She wouldn't have known it was him who tried to revive her. As she lay there, bleeding, sprawled across the road, he looked into her eyes, which once were beautiful, and were now empty and lifeless. He recognised her, but there had been so many that he couldn't remember exactly who she was. He touched her arm, a silent apology, because deep down he felt guilty. He felt responsible.
They told her she was safe. They said he couldn't hurt her anymore, but in the end, it was him who killed her.
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