Stepping into the bar was a smooth transition between the brisk October air and the dark, slightly musky space. The bar was an allegory for fear, and I wouldn't have been there if not for her. 

We needed a neutral space, somewhere not tainted by us in our previous existence together. I turn to my right and have the first out of body experience in a while. She's at the bar, taking a shot of vodka. Since when did she take shots of vodka? 

I'm transported to the first time I saw her, reddish bob, eyes cast downwards, attracting waves of attention (from me, anyway) in the echo of her quiet routine. Even then I knew that the library was a sacred space for her. It was weeks before I worked up the gusto to talk to her. I finally did, and long story short the best place to start is here, where we are at what is literally the end of the beginning of everything. Look, it was my fault that our relationship ended, but we were fated to begin over and over again. I don't know yet how to put the right words together. I just know that I love her, and I want her back. 

I cut across the space to a table near the empty stage, pretending not to have seen her. I gulp down a full glass of water before she sits in front of me, so quiet she's like the embodiment of my remorse, a thing that is so all-consuming I almost fail to notice her entirely. We're still caught in the continuation of a month-long gridlock. That's right: she's the love of my life and I haven't spoken to her in a month. Saying I haven't seen her would be a lie--I see her in my head every single day. In my sketchbook, every single day. 

I was never one to embody the clichés around dating, mostly because before Heart I could never understand them. How someone could read their partner's face like a book, and never get tired of it. How they could forgo the imagination of finding another partner, of another life, of eloping with a beautiful, dark-eyed foreigner on a shimmering vacation. I get it now. 

She looks stunning, if a little tired. I stare a little too long at her lips, remembering the name of her lip shade: "Too close for comfort." She bought it on a whim during a weekend trip with one of our mutual friends, Sadie. Thought it would pair well with her dress for one of our dance club's ballroom nights. And, as I distinctly remember, it's the only shade that I haven't kissed her in. 

Before I know what's happening, slow tears are rushing down her face. 

"Cameron, you're not allowed to look at me like that."

Her voice is deceptively steady, but quiet, despairing. The latter notes I pick up hesitantly, because the onset of her velvet speech has stopped me in my tracks. We're not dating anymore. She picks up where she left off:

"I'm here because we never talked about what happened."

The statement hangs midair like a feather before the vibrations from her vocal cords fade and we are silently staring at each other again. When she left, there were no arguments. No screaming, no tears, no hairdryers flying across the room. What I had done to her was despicable, and when I came back to our apartment later that day she was gone. 

"I'm sorry," I whisper. I taste the words, the bitter last embers of a dying fire, and I am suddenly embarrassed to face her again, and I don't know how to recognise myself through all the shame. Hot, burning tears slide down my face and I leave them there out of spite for myself. It's one of the most emasculating moments I've ever lived through, but I keep at it anyway, because she's at the end of me. She's always at the end of me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And then the words pour out of me, hot and burning like my tears. 

"I've gone through the scenario thousands of times in my head. Angelina approaches me, puts her arms around my neck. I shake my head, dizzy, confused, yet still perfectly sober. You are always in my head, during every second of our exchange--what would happen, inevitably, when you walked in, what would occur, the look on your face, but I couldn't shake the moment. I wanted to, you don't have to believe me, Heart, but I wanted to end it and couldn't. It was that millisecond of a moment after I shook my head that fixed everything, the last month of hell, us ending, everything. That gave her permission to kiss me, and me permission to move closer. And the worst part was that you did walk in. A minute later. To--"

I couldn't finish.