Mr. International
Excerpt IV
I used to think leaving was proof of strength. Now I understand it is simply my oldest religion.
She listened to me in a way that felt almost obscene—like being touched without permission. Not because she demanded anything, but because she didn’t bargain. She wasn’t trying to win me. She was trying to stand near me long enough for the truth to stop performing.
That is what I cannot allow.
People mistake my distance for mystery. It isn’t mystery. It’s containment.
So one morning I pack without ceremony. No dramatic goodbye. No final scene to romanticize. I leave behind a page from my notebook—one paragraph clean enough to be read by someone who still believes in redemption.
Then I go where attention cannot follow.
Call it the woods. Call it silence. Call it the only country that has ever felt honest.
All that matters is this: I am gone.
And I will be gone for a long time.