I don't have a name. People only remember me when the damage is done.I've never been alone, not really. I am the voice that follows him—the thoughts he can't escape, the guilt that gnaws when sleep won't come. I'm the whisper in his head at 2:13 a.m, the force that clings to his thought. The tightening in his chest when he see someone living the life he once wanted.
The breath he hold when no one listens.
I Am REGRET.
And this is where I first met him.....
I first slipped into his thoughts ten years ago, when he was just sixteen—wide‑eyed, praying over a trembling rosary, desperate for more time. Now he's twenty‑six, and I still won't let him sleep. He was sixteen, too young to know what the world could take, yet already old enough to carry silence like a curse.