I expected anger.
Excuses.
Denial.
Instead, he whispered:
“I didn't know how to say goodbye.”
I stared at him.
“You let me bury you.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“So you decided to play dead?”
He couldn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“You could have called me.”
Silence.
“You could have sent a letter.”
Nothing.
“You could have told me the truth.”
“I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
He finally looked at me.
“Of becoming that person again.”
I frowned.
“What person?”
“The person I was before the accident.”
I didn't understand.
He told me that after the crash, he couldn't handle the guilt.
Someone had died.
He had survived.
He couldn't understand why.
He believed everyone would look at him differently.
He couldn't face me.
Couldn't face our wedding.
Couldn't face his future.
So he ran.
And when he discovered that people believed he had died, he realized he could disappear without anyone questioning him.
Then he met Sarah.
He told her a version of his life that wasn't entirely true.
Eventually, the lie became too large to escape.
And instead of stopping it, he kept going.
I listened.
Part of me understood that trauma can make people behave irrationally.
But understanding someone is not the same as forgiving them.
“You had choices,” I said.
He nodded.
“I know.”
“You chose to lie.”
“Yes.”
“You chose to let me grieve.”
“Yes.”