Tell me how to love you

The pale light of dawn filtered through the blinds, casting soft, uneven shadows across the room. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, like it was holding its breath along with him. Mark goes and lays motionless in bed, his body sinking into the mattress, his mind still tangled in the remnants of the nightmare that had clawed its way through the night. The dreams always felt too real—too raw. They never simply faded like a distant memory; they clawed and dragged him down into a place where his past had a vice grip on his present, reminding him of every mistake, every wrong turn, every failure. The faces of his exes—each one haunting, each one accusing—flashed through his mind, their voices harsh and full of disappointment. They weren't just ghosts of the past; they were active, present, always just a step behind him, taunting him for the way he had hurt them, the way he had failed them without ever meaning to. And that was what made it worse. The feeling that he had tried, but always seemed to fall short.

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to block it out, trying to push those memories back into the shadows where they belonged. But the more he tried to silence them, the louder they became. It felt like an endless loop, a cycle he couldn't break no matter how hard he fought against it. Every person he had ever loved—or thought he loved—seemed to rise from the depths of his mind, accusing him in a chorus of hurt. And in every accusation, he saw the same thing: a man who was incapable of truly loving, of truly being loved in return. It didn't matter how hard he tried to be different. In the end, he was always the same. He always ended up hurting people.

The room was silent, but inside his mind, it was anything but. His thoughts spun in dizzying circles, the weight of his failures pressing down on him, suffocating him under their sheer weight. And yet, it wasn't just the memories of his past that he struggled with—it was the fear of what he might become again. The fear that no matter how far he ran, no matter how much time passed, he would always find himself standing in the same place. Alone. Regretful. Empty.

Then, like a lifeline in the midst of the storm, the soft beep of his phone on the nightstand sliced through the silence. The sound was like a splash of cold water, dragging him back from the depths of his mind, pulling him into the present. His fingers twitched involuntarily, reaching for the phone before his mind could catch up. As his eyes landed on the screen, his stomach dropped. There it was—messages from Emma.

His heart skipped, then sank. The memory of their date came flooding back in a rush—laughter, smiles, shared glances, a connection that had felt as real as the air in his lungs. He could still see her eyes, warm and alive, as though they held a world of possibility. For a fleeting moment, he let himself remember that feeling, the way she had looked at him like he was something worth looking at, something worth being with. But now, in the cold light of morning, all of that seemed so far away, like a dream that had dissipated with the rising sun. The doubt crept in slowly, like a fog rolling in from the edges of his consciousness, clouding everything.

His fingers hesitated above the phone, a sense of dread welling up inside him. He had felt it last night—something pure, something real. And yet, now it felt like a fragile thing, one that could break at the slightest touch, shatter like glass under the weight of his fear. The fear that he wasn't who she thought he was. The fear that, if she got too close, she would see the cracks, the darkness that lived within him. He wasn't ready to share that side of himself. He wasn't ready for her to see the man he had been—or the man he feared he still might become.

He opened the message, his heart pounding in his chest. "Had an amazing time last night, Mark. I can't stop smiling. Hope we can do it again soon." Her words were simple, kind, genuine. They radiated warmth, like sunlight streaming through a window. And for a brief moment, just a moment, he let himself feel that warmth, the comfort of something that seemed so… right. But the more he thought about it, the more it felt like an illusion. He wasn't who she thought he was. He was broken, damaged. He had ruined so many things in his life already. How could he let her in, knowing that he might do the same to her?

He stared at her message, his mind racing, torn between wanting to respond, to tell her that he felt the same, and the deep, gnawing fear that it would all fall apart. He didn't want to hurt her. He couldn't hurt her. Not her. She was different. But that was exactly why he had to pull away before she got too close, before she could see the parts of him that were beyond saving. The parts that had destroyed everything else he had ever touched.

He ran a hand through his hair, his chest tightening with the weight of the decision. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling as they hesitated to type. He wanted to respond, but what could he say? How could he explain the fear that had a grip on him? How could he explain the shame that clung to him like a second skin? How could he tell her that he was terrified—terrified that the same things that had destroyed his past relationships would destroy this one too?

He looked at her message again, the warmth of her words almost suffocating now, like a weight he couldn't lift. He typed, his fingers slow and deliberate: "Hey, Emma. I think we should take a step back. I'm sorry. I just need some space to sort through some things."

The moment the words left his fingertips, a wave of regret washed over him, sharp and unforgiving. It was as if the weight of his own decision had hit him all at once, crashing over him with a force that left him breathless. But it was too late. The message had been sent. And with it, he had pushed her away—again. He threw the phone down on the couch, as though by doing so, he could rid himself of the fear that had taken root inside him.

The silence in the room felt deafening, a vast emptiness that echoed louder than his thoughts ever could. He stared at the ceiling, unable to move, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing with the aftermath of his decision. He had done it. He had pushed her away before she could get too close. Before things could become real.

But the silence didn't bring peace. It didn't bring clarity. It only deepened the pit in his stomach, the ache of something lost before it could even begin. He had let fear dictate his actions once again. He had chosen to run, to protect himself from the inevitable heartbreak he believed would come, rather than face it head-on. But the longer he lay there, the more that small, persistent voice inside of him grew louder. What if you could have been different? What if you didn't have to be alone?

But it didn't matter now. The decision was made. And for all his fear, for all his pain, he knew deep down that he had just ruined the one chance at something good. He closed his eyes, wishing he could escape from the heavy silence, from the weight of his own regret. But there was no escaping it. It was his now. The silence, the fear, the loneliness—it was all his.

And it had always been this way.

****

A/N: why is he pushing her away now, after all that.

I think he is confused about his feelings.

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