“Do you regret it?” he asks, voice urgent. His hands roam up my neck to feel my face, fingers trembling over my cheekbones. “I…” My hands find his arms, cupping his wrists. “I regret not doing it right. And I regret not being what I’m supposed to be.” He strokes a thumb across my wet cheek. “I’m sorry you have to be anything at all.” I know it’s all talk of a dead man. All confessions of two people suddenly aware of their imminent doom. But I melt at his words, mourn what could have been. And now I’ll drown in the regret that is him.
