A quiet evening. The street was empty, only a few streetlamps threw yellow pools of light onto the cobbles. I stood opposite her, and between us lay a yawning gap, even though we were so close I could see the tremor in her eyelashes.
Do you no longer love me? I asked, already knowing the answer.
But hope is a strange thing. It lives on even when the mind whispers, Its over.
She didnt meet my gaze. Her fingers fidgeted with the fringe of the scarfthe same one Id given 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.
Stupid as it sounds, those words stole my breath away, as if someone had clenched my throat and was slowly, mercilessly suffocating me.
How? My voice sounded foreign, pressed down. Like a friend? Like a memory? Like an old song you once sang with feeling, now only playing as background?
Silence.
I remember everything.
I remember the first time she took my hand, as if afraid Id run away. The night she whispered, Youre mine, and the world seemed endlessly kind. The dreams we shared of travelling, of a house by the sea, of children
And now?
Now she looks at me but does not see. As if I were no longer a man, but a shadow, a ghost of the past that blocks her way forward.
Why? My voice trembled. Why do this? Why say you love me when theres no fire left in your eyes? Why kiss my cheek like a relative when your lips once burned like flame?
She flinched.
I didnt mean to hurt you
But you did.
Feelings just fade.
No, I shook my head. Feelings dont fade on their own. Theyre betrayed, killed drop by dropby indifference, lies, cowardice.
She turned away. I could see the weight on her shoulders, but it didnt ease my own. I still loved; she did not.
Time passed. A year? Two? I stopped counting. Life trudged onwork, meetings, hollow chatter with people who left no mark on my soul. I learned to smile without joy, to laugh without happiness. It seemed the part of me that could love truly had been buried forever with her.
Then, by chanceor fates ironyI saw her again.
In that little café on the corner of Baker Street, at the same window seat where candlelight once made our whispered promises feel eternal. She sat there, the same yet different, a strangers arm resting on her knee. She laughed, throwing her head back, and sunlight played in her hair just as it once had for me.
I froze.
My heart, which had long felt stone, surged forwardabsurd, wild, against all logic. It remembered. It recognized her.
She lifted her eyes.
Our gazes met, and time seemed to stumble.
Something flickered in her eyesregret? Shame? A fleeting memory of something that once was more than a passing encounter?
I couldnt grasp it.
She snapped her gaze away, as if burned, and her fingers instinctively squeezed the other mans hand. She said something, smilednow a strained, forced smile.
And I
I simply walked past.
No hesitation. No look back. No false hope.
Because sometimes the strongest thing you can do is leave.
And not look back.
But the city remembered.
The paving stones where we once ran through summer rain, laughing and slipping. The bench in HydePark where she first whispered, Im scared of losing youironic, isnt it? Even the air in that cursed café still carried her scentlight, floral, deceptively gentle.
I stepped onto the street. A cold wind slapped my face, just what I neededit dried what should not have been seen. My phone buzzeda notification, another emptiness. I pulled it out, and the screen lit up with a memory from a year ago: You were here. A photo of us. Her head on my shoulder, my fingers tangled in her hair.
I switched it off.
Delete?
My finger hovered. A year lingered like a shard, a splinter, proof that it had really happened.
Hey!
A voice from behind. I turned.
A waitress, breathless, thrust a black scarf toward me.
You left this behind, she said, smiling.
It wasnt mine.
But I took it. The wool felt soft, almost alive in my hands.
Thanks, I replied.
Then she did something I never expected.
Does it hurt a lot? she asked, childlike and gentle.
I looked at herreally looked. Brown eyes, freckles, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Real.
Before, yes, I admitted honestly.
And now?
I suddenly realised I was holding someone elses scarf, someone elses story, someone elses feelings.
Now Im just alive.
She nodded, as if understanding something crucial.
Would you like a coffee? she offered unexpectedly. My shift just finished.
I laughedfor the first time in months, genuinely.
Yes, I would.
She poured coffee into a thick, slightly cracked porcelain mug, not the standard cups for customers but her own, with a tiny chip at the handle and a faint floral pattern around the rim.
Sugar? she asked, already knowing the answer.
Two cubes, I said, though I usually took it black.
She smiled, as if catching me in a small lie, and dropped two sugar cubes into the mug with a quiet clink. The coffee was strong, with a bitter edge, but exactly what I needed at that moment. I took a sip and realized that, in a year, it was the first time I truly tasted anything.
So? she leaned against the counter, watching me.
Life, I said. Bitter, but with hope for sweetness.
She laughed, and at that instant her shift ended with the ring of the doorbell.
Will you wait for me at the exit? she asked, slipping off her apron. Ill change.
I nodded, watching her disappear into the back room. The café was empty save for the bartender leisurely polishing glasses. He gave me a assessing glance, then winked.
Emma rarely invites anyone for a walk after her shift.
So Im lucky?
Youre special, he chuckled, turning away as if the conversation were over.
Special. A strange word after everything that had happened.
When Emma emergedno longer in uniform but in plain jeans and a stretched sweater, a damp lock of hair tucked hastily behind her earI suddenly wanted to believe in this.
Shall we go? she asked, shaking her head.
Lets, I replied, leaving money on the table for a coffee that seemed worth far more than its price.
Outside, the evening greeted usnot the cold, indifferent night of before, but a new one, full of promise.
Where to? Emma asked, her voice matching the impatience in my heart.
I looked up at the first twinkling stars.
Forward, I said.
And we walkednot toward the broken dreams and old photographs, but down narrow lanes where lantern light fractured in puddles, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the crisp air.
You know whats odd? Emma said suddenly, leaping over a crack in the pavement. You never asked why I called you.
Because it doesnt matter, I caught her gaze. What matters is that I came.
She bit her lip, considering whether to say more, then stopped.
I saw you before, she said.
At the café?
No. She pointed to a weatherworn bench on a tiny square. Here. Last autumn you sat with an envelope in your hands. You tore it up and left.
A chill ran down my spine. The envelopetickets to Venice that never left the drawer.
Why remember that?
Because she touched my palm lightly, you looked like you were losing your last chance. That day I found a stray puppy. I thought the universe had a strange balancesomeone loses, someone finds.
In the distance church bells rang. I realized I stood at a crossroadsboth literal and metaphorical.
So? I croaked. Who am I now? The one who loses or the one who finds?
Emma rose onto her tiptoes, brought her face close enough that I smelled her cherrysweet lipstick, then pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.
It depends only on you.
At that moment either an autumn leaf fell on my shoulder like a fates mark, or somewhere else my ex turned, feeling another piece of the past snap away.
I didnt wait for an answer. I took Emmas hand and led herpast closed shops, under bridges, through unknown alleys.
Are you sure? she laughed.
For the first time in agesyes.
The streets were empty, only the occasional lamp casting long shadows on the pavement. Emmas shoulder brushed mine now and thenby chance or not, I didnt ask.
Where now? she whispered, her voice blending with the rustle of leaves.
I stared ahead, at the dark ribbon of road winding between sleeping houses.
I dont know. Just lets go.
She nodded, and we stepped togetherno rush, no looking back, no thought of what lay around the bend.
Because sometimes the most important thing isnt the destination, but the person walking beside you.
