I’ve been avoiding him. I’m afraid of him—he’s honestly the only one who could make me break the rule: Only Write The Truth. I hope the truth is something we both can live with. I hope when it’s fully revealed it doesn’t destroy everything in its wake. So here it is:

Tristan looks different now. He doesn’t have the boyish charm I remember from that night he stared up at the stars while Katie slept. He doesn’t have that lost look that begs to be found.

Now he staring at me and all I can see is hate. He knows it’s me who took everything from him. I open my mouth to offer him a seat.

“Don’t.”

I  look away from him. To be honest. I feel terrible. “It wasn’t my choice.” I try to explain to him. The story was written and ended long before I picked up my pen.

“You can stop it.” His anger turns to something else.

Those eyes. How many nights did they keep me up? I saw the end in them before I knew what the end was. I saw the pain, the darkness, the boy that reached out for a hand. When I grabbed onto him I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know it meant watching him go through all of this.

He tilts his head back and I see the tears. “I can’t save them. I can’t choose between them and her.”

Right there. I see him break. I leave my desk and move to him. I don’t know if this is allowed. Am I allowed to hold him and tell him I’m sorry?

He falls to his knees and I choose to cross the barrier.

“I’m sorry, Tristan. Even I can’t change a future I can’t clearly see.”

He shudders and I listen to him sob. I feel his heart ache and I know it’s because he didn’t want any of this. He was just a boy born to the wrong family—born at the wrong time.

“Please,” he breathes and clutches onto me.

I can’t believe this is the same boy who as always been so strong. The toughest nut to crack. The one who wouldn’t let me write his perspective because he refused to let me in. This can’t be the same boy. I can hear him begging, offering me anything I want just as long as I don’t make him choose between the lives of millions and her.

The interview. Fuck. Who am I to write it. To write this.

I sit with him until he pulls away. He moves to the corner of the room and sits there staring at nothing.

I leave him—because that’s Tristan. I move back to my desk and start editing. I’m done with writing for today.

He stays for a while—quiet and knowing.

I look up after a few long hard hours as he stands and moves to the door.

He looks back at me, but I have no words and neither does he.

The door shuts with a soft click and I pray it isn’t the last time I see him.