Speaking to Ollie hurt.
Every time we interacted post-break-up, it was like taking a knife to healing scars. Holding on hurts.
I sip my wine, before answering. ‘I thought not speaking would be better, but it was worse.’
‘You could have reached out any time.’
‘I know.’
‘But you didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
His eyes meet mine.
‘It’s changed now, hasn’t it?’ I give a defeated shrug.
The food arrives with mouth-watering scents. The salmon almost looks too good to eat.
‘Why Greece?’ I ask, attempting to keep my tone carefree.
‘Look at it,’ he says.
With the jazz music playing and the glowing amber lights of the restaurant, it’s difficult to deny the appeal. History like crisscrossing veins of memories. This interaction of ours, another addition to the energy of the stone, replayed for millennia by those who tuned in to our emotions.
‘We always said we’d come to Greece.’
‘We did.’
‘And here we are.’
The urge to reach out and touch him, to feel his skin once more, is almost too much to resist. What would it feel like? Would it be like my memories, soft skin, the warmth that was always so comforting?
‘This isn’t how I imagined it,’ Ollie says.
‘You imagined us in Greece?’
‘A few times.’ He flashes that perfect smile. My stomach drops, as though I’m on a rollercoaster.
‘Now you’re getting married.’
It hangs between us like a guillotine. One swipe and everything would go dark, nothing would exist. No going back. I would lose him forever.
‘There’s something on your mind,’ he says to me.
He always knew. To him, I’m a well-read book. A classic. One with its imperfections.
He studies me like he needs me for a thesis.
No one can read me like Ollie.
No one ever will.
‘Why did you invite me?’
‘I’ve missed you. I can’t imagine you not being there.’
