I should have listened to her

It's been five years. Five years since Sarah died. And every single day, I think about what she told me. I replay the conversations in my head, searching for clues, for something I missed. But it always comes back to the same thing: I didn't listen.

We were so young, barely out of college. Full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the world. I had this bright idea – a tech startup, naturally. Every other idiot in our class had one. Mine was going to be different. I *knew* it. Sarah, she was… grounded. She had a good job, the kind with benefits and a steady paycheck. She liked the security. Me? I thought security was for losers.

I told her about my plan, how I was going to quit my job and go all-in. She was hesitant. Not discouraging, exactly, but… concerned. She asked about the risks, about our savings, about what we would do if it didn't work. I brushed it all off. 'Don't worry,' I said, 'I've got this.' I was so cocky, so sure of myself. God, I hate that version of me.

She tried to explain. She wasn't against the idea, not really. She just wanted me to be smart about it. To have a plan B. To maybe not bet the entire farm on a longshot. She said, 'Maybe keep your job for a few months, work on it nights and weekends. See if it has legs.'

But I wouldn't listen. I was too busy dreaming about being the next Zuckerberg. I told her she didn't understand, that she was holding me back. I said some pretty awful things, things I regret more than anything. I made her feel small, like her concerns weren't valid. Like her love wasn't enough. And looking back, she was just scared. Scared of the unknown, scared of me failing, scared of what it would do to us. And she was right to be scared.

The startup failed. Spectacularly. Burned through our savings in six months. I was a mess. Depressed, angry, ashamed. I couldn't even look Sarah in the eye. She didn't say 'I told you so,' but I could see it in her face. The disappointment. The quiet sadness.

I got another job, a dead-end gig just to pay the bills. Sarah, she was amazing. She supported me, even though I didn't deserve it. She held us together when I was ready to fall apart. But something had changed. The spark was gone. The trust was broken. I’d hurt her, deep down.

Then she got sick. Really sick. Fast. Cancer. Six months later, she was gone.

I keep thinking if I had listened to her, if I hadn’t been so arrogant, so consumed by my own ego, maybe things would have been different. Maybe we would have had more time together. Maybe she wouldn't have been so stressed, so worried. Maybe… just maybe… she would still be here.

I can't change the past. All I can do is live with the regret. And try to be a better person. To listen. Really listen. Even when it's the last thing I want to do. Because sometimes, the people who love us the most see things we can't. And their advice might just save us. Or at least, keep us from hurting them. I miss you, Sarah. More than words can say. And I'm so, so sorry I didn't listen.