Petrichor

The door left opened.

And then, we'd meet after 10 years.

Probably at a cafe, or a park, maybe a restaurant, a party, or it could be halfway across the world. Somewhere we had memories of together, or some place where we made memories with others, or probably some place we were going to make some, with each other. It would be a normal day, any day of the year, both our minds unprepared of what life was leading us to.

I'd see you first, and catch you already looking at me, or the other way round. Or we would spot each other at the same time. I'd feel my face heating up, my veins pumping adrenaline vigorously, and my brain trying to conjure up all the possible memories and raining them down to my heart. I'd hesitate, I'd definitely hesitate, but you'd still be irresistible. I'd see your face change, debating whether to listen to your mind, or that wild heart, trying hard to push away the images that would keep on popping up in front of your eyes.

I might go up to you, or I could leave that up to you. I wouldn't be able to help but notice the changes that you'd gone through after all these years, when I wasn't there to witness them. How your shoulders had broadened, your face flaunting that beard you had tried so hard to maintain back then, and probably an ear stud? Tattoos peeping under your t shirt sleeve, and maybe glasses.

I'd be the first one to breath out a feeble 'Hi,', and wait for you to smile back and reply. Or fly into a rage, or simply ignore me. The fourth option might be tempting, but that would mean the end. And we wouldn't let that happen.

The conversation would continue, which is not going to go the way I might type right now. We'd probably exchange formal greetings, how our lives had been throughout, and if I still were a cat. I'd laugh heartily, or simply sigh out a smile, and reply no, I'd grown out of it. Or maybe mewl to answer his question.

There would be a pause; there definitely would be one. There would be a tension between us; who was going to speak first. We would both feel the question fluttering inside our stomach, but I'd only feel the answer at the tip of my tongue. Eventually you'd speak first, since I would still have that little e-word in myself.

"Let's give ourselves a second chance?"

I'd lie if I thought I was prepared for it. I knew this was coming up. But somehow I'd betray my own senses when you'd ask that.

I'd fidget, look at you, smile, laugh, break down, I don't know. I'd probably stand up and walk away, and hope you'd get the message.

"Maybe not. I'd always be the wrong girl, babe."

Because that's what I'd been throughout. Leading him to his destruction. Making him fall for someone like me. I wasn't just going to make him regret his decisions again. I had the fortune of meeting and staying with someone like him, and I'd done enough to show how much of a bitch I am.

With second chances, what's the guarantee I wouldn't leave again? Promise you I'd be by you forever and walk away ruthlessly tramping on your bleeding heart? There aren't any.

I would turn back to look at your face as I'd walk away, try to comprehend the look of, what? Horror? Shock? Heartbreak? Relief? 'I-knew-it'? Because that'd be pointless. I'd never been firm on decisions when it came to you, and I just wasn't going to flunk this time.

This time, I'd finally feel the door closing shut between us. Because, 10 years ago, it was still slightly ajar, and had been throughout.

"'Cause I loved, and I loved, and I lost you"