Only Just Begun

Stage Lights, Drawn Curtains, Beating Hearts

That morning, Jerry woke with a fire in his chest and a mission carved into his bones: it was time to reclaim his morning runs. The duvet clung to his aching limbs, still heavy from the long road trip back to London, but his mind was already racing, restless with determination. It had been over a week since his feet had last pounded the pavement of Stepney Green—a week that felt stretched thin, like time itself had warped in his absence. Each day without his routine had dragged endlessly, draining him not just physically but emotionally. But today, the modest stretch of Stepney Green, with its scattered trees, dew-kissed grass, and soft birdsong, called to him like an old friend whispering, "Come back. Begin again."

Running, for him, was never just about keeping fit. It was his therapy, his meditation, his reset button. With every stride, he didn't just move his body—he calmed his mind, cleared his thoughts, and stitched himself back together.

And this morning, as his sneakers hit the pavement in steady rhythm, his thoughts trailed far beyond the quiet streets of East London. They spiraled toward the night ahead. Toward her.

Carol.

The name hit like a jolt to the chest. He hadn't seen her since the day he left for Scotland, and now, the possibility of being in the same room again made his breath catch. His heart beat harder than any hill he could climb, not from exertion, but from anticipation. Would she look at him the same way she once did, eyes full of warmth and wonder? Or would she pass him like a stranger, her gaze colder than the Edinburgh mist?

The uncertainty was crushing. But one thing burned bright and unmoving within him: his love for her had never left. Not even for a second. It stood like a lighthouse in the fog, guiding him back to something real, something that mattered.

The days without her had stretched and twisted into something unbearable. He had felt her absence in the smallest moments, the way his hand reached for a phone that never rang, the way silence filled the spaces where her laughter used to echo. Each breath he took felt like a whisper of her name. Each heartbeat a plea to the universe for one more chance.

As the sun crept over the rooftops and spilled golden light onto the empty streets, he ran not just to move forward, but to prepare. For whatever the evening might bring. For whatever she might say.

His body was sore. His legs screamed. But his soul burned with something stronger: hope. A deep, untamed need to make things right. He wanted to hold her again. To feel her heartbeat against his. To look into her eyes and find forgiveness, redemption, even if just for a moment. But with that hope came the weight of guilt. Heavy and punishing, it clung to his shoulders like a chain. He had hurt her. He knew that. He'd made mistakes that couldn't be unwritten and the shame of it gnawed at him.

Still... beneath the anxiety and regret, a flicker of belief remained. That love, the real kind, the kind that scars and heals all at once, wasn't easily erased. That maybe, just maybe, she felt it too. He prayed she'd give him that one moment. That one glance. That chance to say what had been left unsaid.