At the harbour

He met her about three years ago. Some people you meet, they seem so exciting. The first time they met, they talked for hours and hours. One thing comes after the other at the speed of light. You can’t think straight, you talk about everything. Childhood, work, music, love life. In under six hours, they knew more about each other than some of their best friends. When they left each other at night, they didn’t dare to say anything else than “goodbye”, even though they felt like something more could have been said.

It’s hard to know if this kind of discovery is related to love at first. Once you leave that certain person, you can’t wait for the next time you meet and talk again. As he was alone, he thought about their long, uplifting and memorable conversation. He tried to see more through what she actually said. He thought about the next time they would meet near the harbour and what he would wear, what he would talk about. He tried to find the best topics in order to unravel her personality. He tried to find the best topics to see if she, too, was feeling this same way. It’s funny. He didn’t even know how he felt.

They met again and again at the harbour. After talking about everything they could talk about, silence brought the two of them into thinking that, maybe, just maybe, they were in love. He was looking at her hands, hoping that she would let one of them go his way so he could hold it. She didn’t. She was looking at his eyes, hoping that he would look back at her. He didn’t. They said goodbye as usual and left each other without admitting that something was blooming at the center of their chest. As they went on separate ways, whatever was blooming seemed to be stuck in their throat, and nothing they could drink would make it go away. They slept quietly in their bed, occupying half of it, thinking about what could have been.

Both of them came back the next day. The conversation seemed bitter. It wasn’t the same anymore. He said something harsh, she replied in a harsher way. They never met again for 3 years.

Until now.

Remorse is sometimes love’s best friend.