Page 93 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

“I came here to check on you, Cole,” he says gently. “You haven’t answered any of my texts or calls.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

I sigh, too numb to argue. “Want some coffee or something?”

He stands and walks toward me—no hesitation, no words—just pulls me into a hug.

“It’s alright, man,” he says, patting my back. “It’s alright…”

43A

EMILY

Dear Cole,

I’m sitting on the floor of my new apartment, where the rent is so cheap the heat only sputters out in uneven waves. It’s freezing in here, and I’m shaking—but I’m not sure it’s from the cold.

It’s taking everything in me not to break down and call you.

Not to beg you to come find me. To save me one last time.

But I won’t.

Because I can’t.

I love you, Cole. God, I love you more than I know what to do with.

But you were right.

You warned me about what this path would cost. About how it would take real courage to live loud, to live honestly, to stop hiding behind what’s comfortable or expected.

You said I’d need strength to stop pretending. To let the world burn and not run to put out the flames.

And I swore I could do it.

I lied.

I wasn’t strong enough to hold you the way you needed me to.

I wasn’t brave enough to choose us.

And if I ever find someone who loves me half as hard, half as recklessly as you did… I’ll know I’ve settled.

Also, you were right about something else:

My poems were never meant to be whispered in dim-lit cafés.

They’ve always belonged on stages, in melodies, with twangy guitars and voices that bleed.

They’ve always been country love songs.

You saw it before I did.

I wish I would’ve warned you?—

That I’d miss you like this.

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