Gone
Feet pounding the pavement. Heart racing fast, about to burst. Because so much is on the line. Your last chance to see him, your last chance to convince him. Make him stay.
If only you could reach the station in time. Time enough to catch that train, to catch him and let loose everything that's been festering inside you and aching for release. Please—I love you—Give me a chance—Give us a chance.
But you're always late.
You run out of breath halfway, your thighs screaming. You try pushing through the pain, mind over matter, memory of him in your head. Seeing the minutes slip away almost makes you want to crumple and cry. Fuck cardio.
7 minutes away from the train leaving. If only you could push through. You see the old familiar bridge before you, the bridge the two of you had crossed under the blazing lights in cold autumn, months ago: that night when you gazed into his eyes in the bar, said the cheesiest line in the world, and found only sweetness and laughter in those eyes. You knew bliss. You know he felt it too.
4 minutes away. If you could only sprint across this bridge to catch that train before it leaves.
But the resolve cracks there. You run out of it. Whatever it was you were tapping. Confidence, desperation, love, desire, hurt, defiance. It all gives way to numbness and knowing: you've already failed.
He would've made time, if he really cared to. He would've shown love, if he really meant it. He wouldn't have pushed this ultimatum on you, if he meant for anything but this. You would've found a way already, to make all of this work out, if ever it existed. He was never yours to have. He's given up on loving you already.
The bubble pops. The bliss is gone. You cease running, halfway across the bridge. You've lost it. You've lost him.
You reach the station a minute after the train departs, could've caught it if you had only tried. The numbness fades, gives way to the anxiety, gives way to the sorrow of knowing you gave up too, so close to making it.