Madness of Regret

I love you, yes, but love turns greed in time,

To claim your freedom would shatter your design.

Let my story end where it once began, 

With you—the tempest, the calm, the span.

Choices lie shattered, their paths now undone, 

As finality reigns 'neath the setting sun. 

He once had it, didn't he?

The craving for tomorrow. Eyes brimming with hope. A soul so full of light it could have illuminated the darkest nights.

He lived for that sound. The ding. A single note, unassuming to the world, but to him, it was everything. Every second, every minute, every hour, he waited with anticipation that coursed through his veins like sparks of electricity. His gaze darted to the glowing screen, his heart leaping at even the faintest possibility of the sound he longed to hear.

And then it came—the ding.

His lips curved, instinctively, unconsciously, into a smile. It started small, then grew, swelling with each passing second until it felt like it might spill over, uncontainable.

"Why are you smiling so much?" his family would ask, bemused by the sudden bursts of joy that seemed to come from nowhere.

He'd fumble for an answer, his cheeks flushing, but the smile never left. It was as if his heart had taken over, refusing to hide the happiness blooming within him.

A good day became better. A bad day became bearable. The ding softened the jagged edges of his reality, wrapping him in a fleeting warmth. It wasn't just a sound; it was his favorite part of the day. No—it was the day.

But then came reality.

It didn't come gently or gradually. It arrived like a harsh wind, sweeping away the simplicity of his joy and replacing it with the weight of adulthood. The dings grew fewer and farther between, their absence leaving a hollow silence that echoed louder than any sound.

He still waited. But the waiting felt different now—heavier, sharper, like a blade pressed to his chest. And while the dings diminished, his expectations only grew.

He didn't just want the ding. He wanted what it carried: meaning, connection, validation. The world around him—the movies, the shows, the stories—fed these expectations like water to a seedling. And oh, how that seedling grew. It sprouted into something unruly, something wild, something he couldn't control.

It grew into hope.

Every day, he waited—not just for a ding but for what it promised. He expected the ding to bring him happiness, a reason to smile. He hoped for it to carry a piece of magic that could lift the weight of his days.

He expected each ding to make him feel seen, heard, valued. He hoped each ding would hold within it a small miracle, a sign that he mattered.

He expected dreams, the ones he had so carefully tied to the ding, to come true. He hoped for those dreams to be noticed, nurtured, fulfilled.

He expected the expectations he carried to be reciprocated, returned with the same tenderness and urgency he gave them. He hoped—oh, how he hoped—that what he gave the ding, it would give back to him.

But reality was unkind.

It taught him that expectations, no matter how gently they are born, can grow into burdens that crush. It taught him that hope, though beautiful, can sharpen into an ache when left unanswered. It taught him that the things he expected, the things he hoped for, often lived beyond the limits of what the world was willing to give.

And yet, he could not stop hoping.

He stayed there, in that liminal space—waiting for the ding, yearning for what it might bring, tethered to the faintest possibility that maybe, just maybe, the sound would return and make him whole again.

The silence became unbearable, yet he clung to it like a lifeline. He scrolled through old messages, rereading them until the words felt worn, their meaning dulled by repetition. Still, he convinced himself they held something—some hidden truth, some unspoken promise he might have missed the first hundred times.

He didn't just miss the ding. He missed the version of himself who could smile so easily because of it. The version who believed in a tomorrow that was brighter, better. The version who felt whole, simply by hearing the sound of someone reaching out to him.

But now, even when the ding occasionally came, it didn't hit the same. The joy that once surged through him felt muted, distant, like an echo of a memory. The smile still came, but it was slower, softer, tinged with something bittersweet. He couldn't tell if it was because the dings had changed—or because he had. Or maybe because she had.

He noticed it first in the pauses, the growing gaps between the dings. At first, he shrugged it off, convincing himself she must be busy, that life had simply grown louder for her. But the silence began to stretch, and with it, doubt began to creep in. When the dings did come, they felt rushed, hollow, as if they were no longer tethered to the warmth they once carried.

Did she notice the way his replies grew slower too? The way his words became cautious, like he was testing the ground before stepping forward? He began holding back, afraid to say too much, to reveal that he still cared as deeply as before.

And then came the hesitations—the moments where he chose silence over vulnerability, where he let his pride answer for him. He didn't want to be the only one waiting. He didn't want to be the only one trying.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from hoping. Hoping that she might notice the absence of his messages and ask why. Hoping that she might miss him enough to close the distance he felt growing between them.

But she didn't.

And he? He didn't ask her why the dings came later and later. He didn't tell her how each one felt emptier than the last, like a shadow of the connection they once shared. Instead, he turned inward, creating scenarios in his head—both good and bad—to fill the silence.

Did he realize it then? When he felt the flicker of his own excitement dimming? Did she realize it when she began replying only after he greeted her first? Did either of them notice how they both had started withholding pieces of themselves, little by little, as if testing how much distance the other could bear?

He stayed bound by the chains of his own longing, searching for the courage to leap into something new. But when that courage finally came, it was far too late to jump—or maybe the one he wanted had already jumped far away from him.

Was she at fault for drifting, for letting the dings grow sparse without explanation? Or was he to blame for expecting her to read his mind, for assuming she could see the ache behind his guarded words?

Perhaps they both were.

She, for pulling away when she needed space, but never saying so. For letting her replies become obligations rather than choices, for answering out of guilt instead of affection. For not telling him that she, too, felt the weight of expectation pressing down on her, suffocating the joy they once shared.

And he, for clinging too tightly to the idea of what they once had, for placing her on a pedestal she never asked to stand on. For expecting her to always bring the light into his life without realizing she might need some of her own.

The regrets piled high, on both sides, until they became insurmountable. They suppressed the flicker of courage he managed to summon, the courage she might have had too, if only they had spoken sooner.

In the end, he could feel his courage—faint and fragile, like a flame trembling against the wind. But the weight of his regrets made him unable to do anything but feel. She, too, might have felt her own courage flicker, but by then, the distance between them had become too vast to cross.

He was a step away from life—and a life away from truly living. And perhaps, so was she.

And somewhere in that waiting, in that aching stillness, he realized the cruelest truth of all: the sound he longed for wasn't coming back.

Did he realize it when he asked why the ding came so late? Did he realize it when he felt the flicker of flame losing interest? Did he realize it when he thought of every scenario in his head—both good and bad?

Or did he realize it when the ding came only after he greeted her first?

Perhaps she realized it too.

In the silence that followed, neither blamed the other aloud. But in their hearts, both knew: they had been the architects of their own distance, their own undoing.

And yet, in the depths of that realization, another thought began to take root. A dangerous, whispering thought.

Could he undo it all? Could he erase the cracks, smooth over the fractures, and weave the threads back together? Could he reshape what had unraveled—by deceit or truth?

It would be easy, wouldn't it? A few well-placed words, a carefully constructed half-truth, a subtle bending of reality. Couldn't he guide her back to him, even if the path was paved with shadows? Couldn't he make her see, make her stay?

But then came the questions, the ones that clawed at his chest, relentless and unyielding.

Would it be right?

Would she even be the same if he reached her this way? Would the woman he longed for—the one whose presence once brought light into his days—still exist if she were shaped by his deception?

Or would she become a hollow reflection, someone tethered to him not by choice, but by a mirage he had crafted?

And then, the darkest question of all: Would I have done it out of love—or greed?

Was this desire to win her back truly about her, or was it about himself? About the emptiness he couldn't bear, the ache he refused to confront? Was it love if it came at the cost of her freedom? Or was it something uglier—something that would shatter the very essence of who she was?

Wouldn't it destroy the beauty of her design?

Her wildness, her independence, her ability to choose—not just him, but herself. Wouldn't it strip away the chaos and grace that made her who she was? Could he love her then, knowing that he had bent her will to match his own?

He wrestled with the questions, seeking answers that refused to come. Morality stood before him like an impassable wall, demanding he confront the truths he wished to avoid.

What would remain of them, of her, of himself, if he chose this path?

Would she be the same, or would she become a stranger molded by his desperation? Would he still see her in the same light, or would guilt and regret taint every moment they shared?

Could love forged in the fires of manipulation ever be called love at all? Or would it be something else entirely—a fragile illusion, waiting to crumble under the weight of its own deceit?

He didn't know. And worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The not-knowing was easier, safer. It spared him from confronting the parts of himself he feared the most.

Yet, as the silence stretched on, heavier and more suffocating, he began to understand that the answers he sought were the ones he feared most of all. Because those answers demanded something of him—something he wasn't sure he was ready to face.

But then, in the stillness of that moment, something shifted. It wasn't a grand epiphany or a lightning bolt of clarity. It was quieter, gentler—like the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. He realized that the silence wasn't his enemy. It wasn't a void to be filled with dings or words or desperate actions.

The silence was his answer.

It told him what he had been too afraid to admit: that it was time to let go. Not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much to hold on to something that no longer fit. To keep chasing a sound that had already faded.

He once had it, didn't he? The craving for tomorrow. Eyes full of hope. A soul untouched by the heaviness of longing.

But now, all that remained was silence—and a heart still waiting for a sound it might never hear again.

He was me.