I didn’t know I was loving on borrowed time. How could I? They say, when you know, you know. But I’ve never been entirely sure of anything in my life, so why should he be different? He was, though. He was different.
Thursday nights were our nights. I’d meet him on the corner of Holland Road and we’d wander down to the park and sit on the swings, talking and hoping and dreaming and regretting. I shared more of myself with him than I’d ever shared with anyone, even me. I felt more around him, more certain of who I was, who I wanted to be.
One evening, it rained. I half expected him to stay in, but as I turned the corner, there he was, standing beside the road sign, his face tilted up towards the sky, the blur of the rain obscuring his features. I snuck up on him and gave him a fright, and he laughed and took my hands in his and twirled me round and round. We danced for what felt like hours, in the rain, under the yellow glow of the streetlamps. And I noticed for the first time that when he laughed, he bent over slightly, and crinkled his nose and it made me melt right into the puddles at our feet. And when he pressed his lips against mine, the knot in my chest lessened slightly, and I felt lighter than air.
I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back. And the next Thursday I waited for him on the corner of Holland Road. And the Thursday after. And the one after that. And now every Thursday, I wait for him just the same. Rain or shine, I’m there. Waiting. Hoping. Dreaming. Regretting.
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