Ethan

I always thought my life was planned out in advance: school, perfect grades, Harvard, law. Then I noticed him—Ethan, who ran into the train car at the last minute, out of breath and with disheveled hair. He became talkative, easygoing, lively. I knew he was a mistake, but the conversation started too quickly.

We talked about the future, and I confidently shared my plans for Harvard and my career. Ethan admitted that he didn't know what he'd do tomorrow and was planning to take a gap year. This should have put me off, but I felt calm around him.

He asked me out on a date, and I decided to explain that we should stop. But I never made it to the restaurant. There was a sudden bang—the screeching of brakes, screams. The last thing I saw was his face, distorted with horror. Then—darkness.

I woke up in the hospital. Ethan was sitting next to me, holding my hand. There was fear in his eyes; he didn't look like a carefree guy, but like a frightened boy.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he whispered. These words hit harder than the car.

I knew he was sincere, but I didn't know what to do: break his heart now or give him a chance when our paths are too different?