October 15, 2020 by thewashingteenian
by Dahlia, Staff Writer
The hug lasted too long.
His hands were still wrapped around me when I moved away, not sure if I was to hold on as well.
He told me he remembered that little girl so many years ago, excited and happy, daring to be herself.
He told me of when he first met me, how the little girl reminded him so much of his daughter.
When he finished speaking he looked up from his hands telling the story to look at my sad, disgraced face.
He looked at me as if he expected to see that little girl he thought he knew, when in reality he didn’t.
So he told me, life had swung too hard.
Life had hit you with a basketball and you just needed to figure out it was an accident
Life was waiting for you realize it too
But I stared at him, looked him in the eyes and wondered just who he saw
I wondered if he saw the burst of anxiety and shaking I would get with the people all around, if he saw the foot tapping or eyes shifting as he looked over at me.
I wondered if he saw just how bruised and broken I was, like glass hitting concrete
I wondered if he saw his own daughter, now fragile and too compassionate.
I wondered if he blamed himself for what had happened to me, as if he had thrown the ball, as he was the one who hurt me, who called me names, and broke me down until I couldn’t put myself back together again
It didn’t matter.
I could see in his eyes the hope was fading, I knew it was too late, to say the words he needed, to guard him from the truth that he was too afraid to hear, it was too late, it was too late.
Now he was broken too.