It started a long time ago. “I’ll be there at three, Ivo. And remember I love you.” But at three, three thirty, four, he was still alone. And if she couldn’t tell the truth about that, what chance was there she was telling the truth when she said she loved him?
He never recovered, never believed. Or perhaps in a way he did. And that was the problem. He believed every time until it happened again. He would believe, and wait, and feel his chest squeeze and his breath squeeze and the disappointment crush his heart.
I’ll be with you in five minutes.
I’ll be with you forever.
Ivo breathed out, once.