Before You Leave Me

Epilogue.

Dear Vic:

I guess you'll be surprised to receive a handwritten letter in hand with my name on the sender. Truth is I didn't want to send you a text about this or leave you a voice mail so the letter seemed like the least impersonal option. Dr. Ferguson has been nice enough to promise me it will get to your hands; sorry again for the creepiness of all this but I didn't have your home address.

I can't believe this is the third handwritten letter I've written in my whole life and the other two were also for you. Do you remember? The second one was that seven pages long letter that I wrote in summer 2012. It's been ten years of that. Wow, time really does fly by.

Anyway, this is all besides the point. Or not.

Ten years ago when I wrote that letter, I talked about the promise we had made a couple of months before. I talked about how much I wanted to go to Paris with you and all the things I would like to do on that trip.

Time went by and I stopped feeling that way. I can even say there were times where I forgot about the promise. But I remember it now.

And this hella long letter is just to tell you know that I want to keep that promise.

Let's go to Paris together.

I've come to realise most of my childhood friends have gone away. And if I see them again, it doesn't feel the same around them anymore.

With you... it's completely different. I made a home from you ten years ago and even though we've been apart for so long and our relationship went through so many different stages, I look at you  now and a little bit of my heart still feels at home.

I know you have a new life, a life you wouldn't change for the world, I'm sure of it. I'm not asking you to change it. I'm asking you to find a place in it for me. Or at least try to.

Paris would be a great way to reconnect with each other. Talk things through, talk about ourselves, about everything and anything.

You will find your plane ticket in the envelope Dr. Ferguson has given you. The plane takes off December, 29th at 9:40am. There are no assigned seats, but I've heard row 15 is the best.

I will be there.

Will you?

I read for the nth time the draft of the letter I wrote to Vic about a month ago. Dr. Ferguson said she had delivered it in hand and that, as I had told her, she had told Vic I didn't expect an answer. Whichever the answer was, I'd find out the day of the trip.

Today.

* * * * *

December 29th, 2022.

9:15am

I look outside the window of the plane, Gatwick airport half-hidden by the morning fog.

An old lady walks by and stares at the empty seat by my side, with my coat on it.

"I'm,... I'm saving it for someone" I apologise with a smile.

The lady shakes her head disapprovingly and continues walking down the corridor.

She's not coming.

I sigh and look out the window again, my right leg shaking almost involuntarily, as it does everytime something is nerve-racking for me.

She has to come, hasn't she?