A quiet evening drapes over the narrow lane of a backstreets in London. The pavement is empty, only the occasional streetlamp throwing a pool of amber light onto the cobbles. I stand opposite her, and between us there feels like a canyon, even though we stand so close I can see the tremor in her lashes.
Do you not love me any more? I ask, already hearing the answer.
Hope, though, is a stubborn thing. It lingers even when my mind whispers, Its over.
She avoids my eyes. Her fingers fidget with the fringe of a scarf the one I gave her last winter when we still laughed together, when her laugh was the most precious sound in the world.
I love you but not like before, she says.
It sounds foolish, yet those words knock the wind out of me, as if someone has tightened a grip around my throat and is squeezing slowly, mercilessly.
How? my voice comes out raw, suppressed. Like a friend? Like a memory? Like an old song you once sang with heart, now only background music?
Silence.
I remember everything.
I recall the first time she took my hand, as if afraid I would run away. I remember her whispering in the night, Youre mine, and how the world seemed endlessly kind. I remember us dreaming of travel, a house by the sea, children
And now?
Now she looks at me but does not see. Its as if I am no longer a man but a shadow, a ghost of the past that blocks her path forward.
Why? my voice trembles. Why do you act like this? Why say you love me when theres no fire left in your eyes? Why plant a kiss on my cheek like a relatives, when your lips once burned like flame?
She flinches.
I didnt mean to hurt you
But you did.
Feelings simply fade.
No, I shake my head. Feelings dont just disappear. They are betrayed, killed drop by drop by indifference, by lies, by cowardice.
She turns away. I can see the strain on her, but it eases me no more. I still love; she does not.
Months slip by. A year, perhaps two Ive stopped counting. Life goes on: work, meetups, hollow small talk with people who leave no mark on the soul. I learn to smile without joy, to laugh without happiness. It seems the part of me that could love truly has stayed locked in the past, together with her.
Then, by chance, irony, or plain routine, I see her again.
In the little café on the corner, at the same table by the window where we once whispered over candlelight, she sits now with a stranger. His hand rests on her knee, she laughs, throwing her head back, a sunbeam catching her hair just as it once did for me.
I freeze.
My heart, which felt stonecold, suddenly lurches forward foolish, wild, against all reason. It remembers. It recognises her.
She lifts her gaze.
Our eyes lock and time seems to stumble.
A flicker passes through her eyes perhaps regret, perhaps shame, perhaps just a fleeting memory of something that once was more than a chance meeting?
I cant process it.
She quickly looks away, as if burned, and her fingers instinctively tighten around the other mans hand. She says something, smiles but the smile is tight, almost forced.
And I
I simply walk past.
I dont linger. I dont look back. I give myself no room for false hope.
Because sometimes the strongest thing you can do is walk away and never turn.
The city remembers.
The pavement stones we once ran across in a summer downpour, laughing and stumbling. The bench in the park where she first whispered, Im scared of losing you ironic, isnt it? Even the air in that cursed café still carries a trace of her perfume light, floral, deceptively gentle.
I step out onto the street. A cold wind slaps my face, just the way it should drying away what should not be seen. My phone buzzes in my coat pocket another notification, another void. I pull it out reflexively, and the screen lights up with a Facebook reminder: One year ago. You were here. A photo appears. Us. Her head on my shoulder, my fingers tangled in her hair.
I smash the phone shut.
Delete? a voice calls from behind.
I turn.
A waitress, breathless, holds out a black scarf.
You left it behind, she says with a smile.
It isnt mine.
I take it anyway. The wool feels soft, almost alive in my hands.
Thank you, I reply.
She does something I never expected.
Does it hurt you? she asks, childlike and sincere.
I look at her really look. Brown eyes, freckles, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Genuine.
Yeah, it did, I answer honestly.
And now?
I realise Im holding someone elses scarf, someone elses story, someone elses feelings.
Now Im just alive, I say.
She nods as if she understands something vital.
Would you like a coffee? she offers, surprising me. Im just finishing my shift.
I laugh a real laugh, the first in months.
Yes, I would.
She pours coffee into a thick, slightly cracked porcelain mug, not the standard glass that most patrons get, but her own, with a tiny chip on the handle and a faint floral pattern at the rim.
Sugar? she asks, already knowing the answer.
Two cubes, I say, even though I normally drink it black.
She smiles, as if catching me in a small lie, but says nothing. She drops the two sugar cubes into the cup; they clink softly against the bottom.
The coffee is strong, with a bitter aftertaste, exactly what I need right now. I take a sip and realise that in the past year this is the first time I truly taste anything.
How is it? she leans against the counter, watching me.
Like life, I reply. Bittersweet, hopeful for a little sweetness.
She laughs, and at that moment the shift bell rings her workday really is over.
Will you wait for me at the door? she asks, quickly pulling off her apron. I need to change.
I nod, watching her disappear into the backroom. The café is empty now, only the barman wiping glasses lazily. He gives me a assessing glance, then winks.
Emma rarely invites anyone for a walk after her shift.
So Im lucky then?
Youre special, he says with a grin, turning away, signalling the conversation is over.
Special. A strange word after everything thats happened.
When Emma emerges no longer in uniform, just jeans and a loose sweater, a damp strand of hair tucked behind her ear I suddenly realise I want to believe in this.
Shall we go? she asks, shaking her head.
Yes, lets, I say, leaving money on the table for the coffee that now feels worth more than its price.
Outside, the evening meets us not the cold, indifferent night that once stretched before me, but a new one full of promises.
Where to? Emma asks, her voice carrying the same restless longing I feel.
I glance up at the first twinkling stars.
Onwards, I say.
We walk not toward the broken dreams and old photographs, but down narrow lanes where lantern light fragments in puddles and the scent of roasted chestnuts mixes with the crisp air.
Do you know the strangest thing? Emma says suddenly, hopping over a cracked slab. You never asked why I called you.
Because it doesnt matter, I catch her gaze. What matters is that I came.
She bites her lip, considering whether to speak further, then stops.
I saw you before.
At the café?
No. She points to a tiny, peeling bench in a hidden square. Here. Last autumn you sat holding an envelope, then tore it up and left.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. That envelope the tickets to Venice we never took.
Why remember that?
Because she touches my hand lightly, you looked like you were losing your last chance. That same day I found a stray little terrier on the pavement. I thought the universe has a strange balance. Someone loses, someone finds.
Distant church bells toll. I realise I stand at a crossroads literally and metaphorically.
And? I ask hoarsely. Who am I now? The loser or the finder?
Emma rises on tiptoes, draws her face close enough that I smell her cherryscented lip gloss, then gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.
Its up to you, she whispers.
In that instant either an autumn leaf lands on my shoulder, a silent mark of fate, or somewhere else in the city my former love turns at the same moment, feeling another piece of the past snap away.
I dont wait for an answer. I take Emmas hand and lead her past closed shops, under bridges, through unfamiliar alleys.
You sure? she laughs.
For the first time in ages yes.
The streets are empty, only the occasional lamp casting long shadows on the cobbles. Emma walks beside me, her shoulder occasionally brushing mine accidental or not, I dont ask.
Where now? she murmurs, her voice blending with the rustle of fallen leaves.
I look ahead, down the dark ribbon of road winding between sleeping houses.
I dont know. Just lets keep walking.
She nods, and we step forward together unhurried, without looking back, without worrying about what lies around the next bend.
Because sometimes the point isnt the destination, but the person walking beside you.
