Page 22 of A Wistful Symphony

Delia convinced me to talk to you at the first opportunity so I wouldn’t get cold feet. It only leaves me Sunday to prepare, and I spend the day making notes and rehearsing what I have to say.

When Monday comes, the encounter is all I can think of.

The recordings of the current song are morose, and I’m glad to have put in enough effort in the previous days so I can afford to daydream and dwell in anxiety during my work hours.

Today must be the day. I’m running out of coping mechanisms as it is, and I refuse to go back to anxiety meds because of a silly crush.

Silly. That’s hardly the right word to describe everything you’ve meant in my life, but I fool myself anyway.

Five o’clock beeps and I run through the studio’s corridors, leaving a confused Ms Thorne behind, probably unaccustomed to seeing me leave at the proper time.

The hour is hell at the tube, and I have to wedge myself in a packed car—without holding any bars, which is a struggle—afraid to miss you on your way out.

The streets are darkening in an ominous shade of London grey, and I dodge the sea of pedestrians in a hurried stride that makes me look like someone ready to put out a fire.

The church soon enters my line of sight, a tall and intimidating building hovering above my worries.

I walk in the main nave and ask the priest if you’re still there.

When he confirms, I sigh with unveiled relief.

He tries to urge me into your class, but I refuse, saying I’d rather wait by the side entrance.

A few minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. I’m aware that you’re used to ending your classes late, but it doesn’t stop me from scratching the corner of my thumb and silently cursing you.

When you finally appear through the door, I jerk upright, fixing a stubborn strand of hair that fell on my forehead.

The look on your face is priceless. Cheeks flushed, lips slightly agape.

Your eyes dart from one corner to the other, like a critter caught in a booby trap, and I almost laugh at such a pitiful display of panic.

“Eric,” you say, finally facing me. “Hi.”

“Hi?” I raise my brows. “A month of ghosting and that’s all you have to say?”

You glance down, biting your lower lip, and I regret the unthoughtful response.

“I’m sorry,” I add. “I didn’t come here to argue.”

“And what did you come here for?” Your hazel eyes are set on mine. Bright. Keen. Eager. You rarely look me in the eye, but when you do, it’s always like this. Like you’re peering into my soul.

For a moment, I almost forget what I came here to say. “Closure.” I clear my throat. “That’s what I came for.”

You smile and exhale. I can’t deem your expression relieved or disappointed.

“There’s a cafe right at the corner,” you say. “I don’t know if it’s any good, but we can sit down and talk.”

“Sounds great.”

It’s dark outside and tiny sprinkles on our coats are a foreboding sign of rain.

We walk side by side in utter silence. You look down the entire time, too ashamed to face me, I suppose.

It’s funny what a month has done. There’s no more than a couple of inches between us, but I feel like we’re walking on opposite sides of a canyon. One step closer, and we’ll fall.

With the nearing rain, the cafe has barely any place to sit, and we have to settle for a couple of stools by the counter.

Not the best way to have an important conversation, but fortunate if we mean to avoid looking at each other.

You order a cup of peppermint tea, and I order an espresso.

Nothing else comes out of our mouths until our orders arrive.

“Alright, Eric.” You blow on your teacup before taking a sip. “I’m listening.”

Everything I rehearsed the day before goes out the window.

I want to rage, to utter my frustration, to spit that I want you out of my life.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I’m wounded, but I still want you. Being discarded like a side note has only made me realise how much it pains me to have you out of my life.

Feelings. They’re such bothersome things.

“I don’t mind being rejected by you,” I start, facing my espresso.

“I mean, I care. Of course I care. But I can deal with it.” I breathe deeply and turn to you.

“It’s this I can’t stand.” I gesture between us.

“Not knowing why you left, what I did wrong, if it’s even my fault.

This uncertainty is eating me, Andrew. If you want to leave, fine, I won’t stop you. But I need some answers first.”

You take another sip and gently put your teacup down. Guilt oozes from your pursed lips. “You’re right, of course.” You attempt a smile. “Please, ask away.”

“Okay.” I shake my head, expecting you’d put up more resistance. “Let’s start with why you ghosted me.”

Your gaze falls to the ground, and you swallow hard. “I run when I’m not ready to deal with things. I’m sorry. I was a real dick.”

“I won’t deny that.” I simper. “Are you not ready to face me, then?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be. But some things you must do, even if you’re not ready.”

I nod slowly. That’s the most truthful thing you’ve said since we’ve reacquainted. “What did you mean by things not working out?”

You open your mouth and hesitate, like you’re scared to say it. “That night on your birthday. You said you were still in love with me.”

“Did I?” I frown, recalling pieces of drunken conversation. “Perhaps I did. My memory of that night is fuzzy, but I can see it happening.”

“Why?” Your brows knit. “You should resent me.”

Indeed, I should. Anyone who knows what happened ten years ago would expect me to cross the street at the sight of you. To run and never look back. But here I am, darting towards you every chance I get. It’s these damn feelings. Eating away my heart, numbing my brain. Making me senseless. Careless.

“If you think feelings are something explicable, Andrew, you’re denser about this than I am.” I smile, but you do not mirror it.

“You’ll never move on if we keep seeing each other like this.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But it’s my life, and that’s for me to decide, don’t you think?”

You glance down again, and your voice comes out painfully low. “We’re not right for each other, Eric.”

My throat wobbles and my heart clenches like you’ve strangled it between your fingers. “Then tell me that face to face. Don’t run and cut me out of your life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry. It doesn’t make things any better.”

“Sor—”

“If you say you’re sorry again, I swear to God.”

We both chuckle and you run one hand through your hair. A deep groove carves between your brows as an awkward silence follows. I can almost see your words drifting in the air between us. Fighting to be let out, screaming for release.

“I don’t … I don’t want you out of my life.” You bite your lower lip. “I was so happy when we met again, and I feel so relaxed when we’re together. But I honestly don’t know how this can work out after all that’s happened.” There’s so much regret in your voice. “I wish things had gone differently.”

I smile sadly. “Me too.”

The end of our senior year comes to mind.

A deep, ravenous scar tearing through our lives and tarnishing our future.

But that’s the past, isn’t it? A woeful past, for certain, but one we’ve had plenty of time to leave behind.

We’re different people now. Older. Wiser.

And I guarantee we can make things different this time. Even if love is out of the question.

Yes. I’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all.

“Look, I was hurt back then, but I don’t hold any grudges. You were an important part of my life, and I wish you’d still be a part of it. I think we’re mature enough to be friends.”

You glance sideways, considering my words.

“But if it’s not something you’d like, then ….” I sigh. “Tell me now and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The wait for your answer freezes my breath in my lungs. At last, your lips part. “I think I can do that. We’re great as friends.”

My smile grows wider. “Yeah, we are.”