"Mike, why do you always flee when things get tough?"
Long after Cath had bounded out of the park that day, the question continued to haunt me. I didn't have a solid response back then, and I wasn't sure I did now. A critical and merciless reflection of myself gazed back at me from the café window. The city outside shifted as though nothing had happened, as though my whole universe hadn't been upended.
I swirled my coffee because it was something to do, not because I intended to drink it—it had gone cold an hour ago. Something to help me stay grounded when my thoughts were racing.
In actuality, Cath was correct. When things got tough, I did run. I was afraid of the potential of something real, therefore I had fled from her, from us. I now had to consider whether it was too late to repai
