It Could've Been Different

Looking back at it now, I know that it could’ve been different. I could’ve been different. Instead of turning away, I could’ve yelled: “Come back!” I could’ve changed the events that followed when I turned away. But instead, I gave up. I didn’t look back.

                                                               ...

When I met Owen I was living in the basement in my parent’s house that I had lived in ever since I graduated high school five years before. It—the basement—was incredibly grotesque, with water stains climbing up the walls and a faint smell of mildew.

When I decided to stay at home, I was given the choice to sleep in my old bedroom with my younger sister, Cassie, but I respectfully declined seeing as my sister is a crazy ten year old and no boy wants to date a girl who shares a room with her nosy, annoying sister.

But Owen did. When I first brought him to my room in the basement and he complained about it being cold and dirty I asked if he would rather have my sister spying on us and he said, “Sure.” Because Owen was great like that. He was patient and kind. Caring and smart. All of the things I wasn’t. And that became clear the night of the last date.

That night was more clear to me than a mirror. Probably because I did nothing, so there wasn’t much to remember of it.

It started with a nice dinner at my favorite restaurant. Owen told me he loved me. He loved me. I choked on my wine, but pulled through it and told him I loved him too. Though it might not have been particularly true. I loved him more than anyone else I had ever loved, but love is a complicated word. Of course I didn’t love like a puppy, but I didn’t think he was the love of my life. I was twenty-tree. If I had gone to college I would’ve only finished a couple weeks earlier. I needed to figure out my life before deciding if I really loved Owen or not. But I said it anyway.

After the dinner, we walked to the park by the river where we sat on a bench and laughed like nothing was wrong. To be honest, there wasn’t much wrong—only me. He was perfect.

We sat in silence, my head on his shoulder. Then he moved and I sat up. He moved to kiss me but I pulled away. He looked so heartbroken. He asked what was wrong, and I said that we had to end it. Us. He looked away. He asked why. He said that he thought that we were doing good. But I shook my head. 

I don’t know what happened. It was like my mind took full control. He tried to argue and I didn’t say anything. I felt empty. Now, I realized I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve kissed him back and fallen into a trance. But instead, I waited. I waited and he left. He got up. He walked away and so did I. I slowly walked away from that bench, step by step, shuffle by shuffle. 

I wanted to turn back, to tell him that I made a mistake, but I couldn’t. He was too perfect and good for me. He deserved someone that wouldn’t constantly question their love for him.

But that night, when I arrived at home, taking the long route back, and curled up underneath my suffocating blankets, I did think. I thought about what I had done. It was horrible and cruel and I came to the conclusion that I never deserved to be happy. But at midnight, when I was still deep in thought about ways to terribly punish myself, there was a knock at the window. Owen.

I got of my bed, careful to not meet his gaze, and opened the window. I asked what he was doing, secretly thinking that I didn’t even deserve to see his beautiful and kind face ever again. He said that he wouldn’t give me up and that we could work out whatever was happening. That he couldn’t be without me. I looked away from him, tears forming in my eyes. I took one last moment to think. Sometimes we can’t help who we love. Maybe he wasn’t the love of my life, but maybe he didn’t have to be. I could be with him until it was the right moment. And if he was the love of my life, the person who I was meant to be with, I couldn’t waste that chance.

I turned to Owen and asked if he forgave me, but instead he knelt down more toward the window above me and handed me a box. I opened it up and started crying. I ran out of the house to him and promised him I would never hurt him again. He asked me what my answer was.

I cried into his shoulder and whispered into his ear, “Yes!”

                                                              ...

Five years later. There wasn’t a chance Owen or I would ever forget that night, that story. It started a tragedy and ended in white dresses and wedding bells. 

Ten years later. I was watching my child run around in the grass in the park where it happened. And I was thinking about what would’ve happened if Owen didn’t run after me. I know it seemed like this story would be a tale of woes, and it a way it was. The title of the story is wrong, but its also right. I could’ve not have walked away. Owen could’ve also not come after me. He could’ve not proposed when he did. 

So in a way, it could’ve been different.

But it wasn’t.