flashes of light dance in some bunched cellophane on the floor. its glassy splendor seems almost like ice, tricking his eyes as he tries to write. he can’t think of anything.
“it’s time to go,” she says from behind him, her voice so small it was far away.
without looking at her, he knows there’s a light dancing in her eyes too. but it’s not happiness.
but he doesn’t want to admit it. this is where she belongs.
8:00 a.m., unhappy, standing on the platform and watching her plane through a wall of glass that’s about to become a thousand miles thick. of course, the flight was on time.
he cries. he can’t help but think that she’ll never know how much he cared about her. here, he has everything to remind him of her.
and she only has a note filled with scattered thoughts that the cellophane hardly let him write.