Three Years

The last time he saw her was three years ago. At high school graduation, with him wearing a black tuxedo that pinched in all the wrong places and a blue, geometric-patterned tie that he’d found at the back of his closet, her in a flowy white dress that had glowed against her tanned skin, her hair tousled and curled in an extravagant beehive that only she could pull off.  

They’d made some small talked. Tried overly hard to ignore the bitterness and resentment that’d stained the air around them blue and red and purple. Smiled too much, laughed too hard, made sure the awkward pauses faded before memories could claw their way in. And then he’d told her about how he’d decided on a different college, miles and miles away from the one they’d both planned on going, watched as her face flickered with surprise, then hurt, then relief. She’d told him about her new friend, the one that might be more than a friend, watched as he’d struggled to hide the tornado that’d crash-landed inside of him.

After that, there had been an awkward pause. And then she’d broken it by blurting, “It’d be best if we never saw each other again. I mean-like, not in a rude way, but… There’s just too much between this- between us now, and I don’t think either of us can handle it.”

She’d been right. She always was, and still a part of him had wanted to keep protesting, despite the fact that he’d changed colleges for the exact same reason. But he’d kept that hidden away too, and instead replied, “After this, you should just forget about me. Pretend none of this ever happened. Go on with life.”

She hadn’t met his eyes. And after that, they’d parted ways, determined to make sure their paths never intersected. They’d succeeded too, for three years.

Until, the call. Her soft words, masking the tears that came with them. The pang in his chest, sharp enough that he’d almost fallen over.

The beep.

The internal war.

The five hour plane ride.

The knock on her apartment door.

He wasn’t sure who’d hugged who first, but after that first physical contact, nothing else mattered. He’d held her as the dams broke, made her soup as the cities flooded, and brushed her hair away from her face as the skies sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.