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Gone With the Wind

He had a sinking feeling that she was gone. Gone for good this time. This had happened before, but not like this. Her brothers even indicated she wasn’t returning. They figured she was too ashamed she’d proposed, made it public, and then I never showed up. What an ass.

Not even her longest-standing friend online had seen her in a year now. Could she be dead? Aye, she very well could be. What an ass, squared.

She told him she’d been sick. She needed someone to cook for her so she could keep her job. But even after throwing away all her responsibilities and taking her back to her parents — at least, that’s what he thought he’d done in his head — she didn’t recover. In fact, no one had spoken to her in such a long time now… it had to be true.

She had to be dead.

The most vivacious woman alive… gone. Just like that. Winked out like a lantern that expired. She was amazing, too, he thought. So why didn’t he just say yes when she proposed to him? Why did he have to act like an asshole and ignore her messages?

He read them… long after she disappeared. It was tedious, too, because it was a one-sided dialogue that was all over the place. It included a wedding spread, to the best of his knowledge, and so much more. She made video after video, trying to tell him everything. He learned nothing.

How do you tell the woman of your dreams that you don’t want to relocate? How do you even tell her how mad you are that she didn’t speak to you for ages and just gave you a picture of the most amazing artwork you’ve ever seen, obviously inspired by you, for Christmas? All she’d said was “Merry Christmas.”

And I shut her out. For what? My pride? My ego? My stupidity? What exactly do I gain by being angry at the woman for years? Nothing, in retrospect. I gained nothing and I lost the opportunity of a lifetime.

I turned deaf ears and blind eyes to her pleas and appeals to my humanity. I was stewing, I was so angry. I thought she blew me off again for Christmas. It was just like the first time. I thought she was fucking around with me, playing with my heart. I thought a lot of things…

Until I found out she nearly died and has cancer. Literally, what is fucking wrong with me? The woman was dying on me and begging me to save her like Superman. All I had to do was cook — which I’m capable of, if not good at it. That’s it. She needed help and I ghosted her instead.

Regret is a word that needs to be sent to the bottom of the sea and fished out again, covered in muck. That’d be the word I need to express how sorry I am that I didn’t listen to her. That I didn’t help her. And moreover, what kind of fucktard am I for talking to her sporadically for an entire year without asking her how she’s doing? Why didn’t I just pry? Why didn’t I make her tell me the status of things? Why didn’t I demand more of her?

I was scared, I know that now… but it’s no excuse. I have absolutely no excuse for shutting her out in the cold and leaving her there. I deserve whatever Hell there is because I feel as if I murdered her myself. I’m guilty, so throw me in jail.

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