“Open up yourself,” his friend said. “If she loves you, whatever you say, she would understand.”
"It's hard," he said.
"Trust me on this one."
On the way home, he meditated whether to tell her or not. It wasn't a matter of trust but a matter of understanding.
Would she react like her previous relationships each time he told the truth?
They always disappeared from his life, taking his secret with them, without explanation.
His phone rang, it was her. Again, he acted like a fool. Under stress, he told her that they could meet up and talk that he had something important to tell her.
In ten minutes, they would meet in Central Park.
He didn’t walk but rather sprinted his way to the park. His body needed the rush, the adrenaline, the oxygen to ventilate his brain. He needed it to make the right decision.
With her hands on her knees, she sat down on the bench they first met. As usual, he was late, she called his phone, but he didn’t pick it up. She stayed there until the sunset, yet he never arrived.
On the street only two miles away, a truck ran over him. In the end, before the accident, he made up his mind. He was going to tell her his secret.