Four years ago, I was sitting opposite her in a Mexican joint. She was shy, very shy, yet every time her eyes met mine, she smiled. Ended up giving me her number without me asking; and I knew I could.
Haven't seen her in a month. Popped by to swap books and photos.
— How are you? — She asked in a desperate attempt to start a conversation. It was plain and banal — and heartbreaking.
— Good. All's good.
— You, you wanna say anything?
— Nah. Am not ready yet, maybe later. — I sigh and stand up to leave.
I'm leaving and not looking back. Back in the street, I can breathe again. There's one more thing, I message her: I wanted to spend my life with you — and I'm still sorry it didn't work out.
She never replied.
