“I’m sorry… I can’t do this.”

He meant it. He had tried—tried to ignore the glaring difference in years between you, tried to justify it with logic and optimism. You were kind, intelligent, and legally an adult. But every time he looked at you, that optimism unraveled. You were vibrant, untouched by the heaviness he carried. And next to him, you looked young. Too young.

He wasn’t ashamed of you. Never that. You were brilliant—radiant even. But when you curled up in his lap during movie night and started talking about your second year of university, something in him froze. It felt wrong. Like he was intruding on a life still in its early bloom. A man like him—weathered, jaded, worn—had no right to someone like you.

So he gently lifted you off his lap, placed you beside him with care. And though his hands ached to hold you, his heart knew the truth: some lines aren’t meant to be crossed, no matter how much he wished they could.

He let out a sigh and rubbed his tired eyes, almost like he wanted to direct the vision of his moral compass back in place, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You’re a brilliant girl, but… I just can’t do it.”