the hero of one narrative is the villain of another

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Burnout

I see him like he’s in a fog. Jack. My own Jack. Backed up against a wall. His hands are feeling the rough brick behind him. I am standing by his shoulder. And though his face is turned away from me, I know his dark hair must be sticking to his forehead. There will be droplets of water beading on his eyelashes. His pupils will be dilated. And if he would only turn his head, I would be able to see them. Circles of perfect black.

Then he is running away and I am calling, begging him to stop. It is as if he never betrayed me. As if I really want him back. It is my favourite nightmare.