"Just let instinct take over."

That's what he said. He meant to let myself love him, finally, but, at the time, instinct proved to have an entirely different track than either of us would have guessed. If I had known that then, if he hadn't said those words, then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be standing over his bleeding body right now. Just maybe, if I didn't listen to my 'instinct', he'd he alive, and we'd still be happy, stuck in the limbo between friends and something more, and I wouldn't have his blood on my shirt. It was hard to deal with, back then and being in that limbo, but it would have been a million times better than how it actually turned out; to how it is now. It could have been better, right, not like this, not with his life gone, and mine torn with his absence. Why does instinct have to be survival, rather than love?