Roadrunner

 

Today I saw him.

Not in a dream.

Not in my head.

Not on a screen.

In real life.

At the dispatch office.

And my body reacted before my mind could form a sentence.

I hid.

And then I ran.

I ran like my legs knew something my heart didn’t want to accept yet. I ran like there was no dignity to preserve, only survival.

There was a time when I would manufacture crossings.

Take longer routes. Stand where I knew he might pass. Just to see him. Just to feel that familiar pull in my chest.

Today, the same chest couldn’t bear it.

I heard his voice. God — I loved his voice. It still does something to me. It still bypasses logic.

For one second, everything inside me split.

My heart went: There he is.

My brain went: You cannot do this. You will break.

My body chose for both of them.

Run.

I felt ridiculous and terrified at the same time. Like a child who has been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. Like an adult who finally understands she can’t pretend anymore. I thought about how there was a time I would’ve given anything for him to touch me. How I used to crave his presence — his hand, his nearness, even his irritation. And now I couldn’t even say a polite “good morning”. I couldn’t look at him. Not because I don’t love him. But because loving him and seeing him at the same time feels impossible.

I kept thinking:

Did he see me?

Did he notice me running?

Does he remember how different this used to be?

And then I hated myself for still wondering. I hated that my body remembered him faster than my pride did. I hated that even while running, some part of me wanted to turn back.

And I turned once. I think he saw me. And in that second I realised — I am not strong enough to be gracious yet. I am not healed enough to be civil. And that doesn’t make me small. It makes me honest. Running today wasn’t drama. It wasn’t immaturity. It was the first time I listened when my body said:

Not now.

I didn’t text him after. I didn’t explain. I didn’t make meaning. I just let the moment pass — shaking, breathless, confused. Today showed me something painful but true: I can love someone and still not be able to face them.

And maybe that’s not weakness. Maybe that’s the beginning of protecting myself —even if it doesn’t look elegant yet.

After I ran, my body didn’t stop running. Getting away from him didn’t bring relief — it only started something else. My breathing went off first. Short, uneven, unfamiliar. Like my lungs forgot what they were supposed to do.

I tried to stand normally, look normal, be normal — but my chest started to hurt. Not emotionally. Physically. A tight, squeezing ache that made me scared in a way I didn’t want to admit. My throat felt like it was closing, like even air needed permission to pass. I kept telling myself to calm down.To get a grip. To stop embarrassing myself. But my body wasn’t listening.

I was panicking.

And what scared me the most was realising that I wasn’t panicking about him anymore. I was panicking because he was near. As if my body had finally learned something my heart was still arguing with — that proximity itself is dangerous now.

Later, I spoke to a friend.

She didn’t speak gently. She spoke clearly. She said he was married the entire time. She said he never gave me the respect of standing by me. She asked why it even matters how he’s doing in life now. She said he cheated on me — not once, but repeatedly.

She asked what else does he need to do after telling me to have some self-respect, after sharing that he’s happy with someone, after saying that he doesn’t need my advise, after saying that his marriage might’ve worked if not for me, after always finding faults in my tastes and choices and networks and relations but praising and boasting about hers, after not kissing me, after maybe knowing and realising how I’d stood by and for him and yet making me feel replaceable, after sleeping around and making it be ok because he told me honestly about it. 

I listened. And I cried.

Because some part of me was still hoping someone would defend him. Or at least soften the truth. Instead, she said:

Yes, you fucked up.

But so did he.

And he did it again and again.

And you paid for everything alone.

I don’t even know if she remembers that I went out on him too. But hearing the story told without balancing it, without cushioning it, hurt more than being blamed ever did. It felt like the last illusion collapsing — the one where pain was at least evenly shared.

Today didn’t hurt loudly.It hurt quietly. Like something ending without ceremony.

My body ran.

My chest panicked.

My breath betrayed me.

And my friend said the things I wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Somewhere between all of that, I realised something I didn’t want to: I’m not fighting to be chosen anymore. I’m fighting to survive the truth.

And that fight feels lonelier —but it also feels real.