Final Call

She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.

“It was so good to see you again,” she says, jiggling the pack from side to side and tugging on the straps. “I can’t believe we left it so long.”

I nod and stare down at my shoes, scuffing them along the concrete.

Tell her.

I scrunch my eyes closed, but she’s all I can see. The unruly black hair she’s forever pushing off her face. The way she chews her lip when she scrolls through her phone. The jagged red line just above her temple, a permanent reminder from our student days that tequila and fridge doors don’t mix.

I shake my head. Just tell her.

“You’ll have to come and see me next time,” she says. “I promise I’m not as untidy as I was at university…”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I say, wrinkling my nose at the thought of our revolting rented house in Ipswich. Sticky lino floors. Windows that were nailed shut and more water pouring down the walls than ever ran out of the bath taps.

“I’m surprised we didn’t catch the plague,” I say, shuddering.

“Rats have standards too. I don’t blame them for not wanting to set foot in that place,” she giggles, bumping my arm. “Do you remember when Jez thought it was a good idea to snowboard down the stairs?”

“Or when Sally poisoned us with her so-called beef stew? I’m pretty sure that’s where all the rats went…”

“Stop,” she snorts, covering her face with her hands. Several people glance across and smile as she roars with laughter. I can’t stop grinning either. Her joy is infectious. Everything’s a little better when she’s around. I feel better when she’s around.

To think I’d been so worried about seeing her again. I’d waited on the platform, checking my phone every two minutes, the butterflies somersaulting in my stomach. What if we didn’t get on anymore? What if…

My doubts vanished as soon as she jumped off the train, screeching my name and tripping over her feet as she hurtled down the platform. We chattered away the entire walk home, talking over one another, laughing, hardly pausing for breath. It was just like old times.

Old times. Certainly, nothing’s changed. I was too cowardly to tell her how I felt back then and it’s no different now. I just wish she knew how…

“I’ve had such fun this weekend,” she says. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed so much. I've always loved being with you.”

My cheeks flame. She doesn’t mean it like that. She doesn’t. Just get her out of your head.

“Oh look, here’s my train. It’s early. What are the chances of that.”

Indeed. What are the chances.

I was hoping I had more time. Just a few more minutes, long enough to work up the courage maybe. Now it’s too late. I peer over my shoulder as the train thunders through the station, the wind whipping up discarded sheets of newspaper and hurling them into the air. My shoulders sink and I shield my ears, the metallic squealing of engine brakes competing with the roaring in my head.

Tell her.

“I’d better get going,” she says. “Can you imagine if I missed my train when I’m standing right next to it.”

I swallow, the words stuck in my throat. It’s too late. She kisses me on the cheek and dashes for the train. Wait.

I keep pace with her as she barrels down the carriage, smiling and nodding at her fellow passengers. She collapses into an empty seat and taps on the glass, pointing at her phone and mouthing, ring you later.

No. No, I can’t watch. I can’t watch her leave me again.

I raise my hand and keep walking, each step heavier than the last. The old lady dawdling at the turnstile spins round and scowls as I mutter, you’re a bloody idiot.

Why didn’t I say something. Even if she’d said she’d rather eat another bowl of Sally’s rat stew than be with me, at least I would have tried.

Tell her.

I ram my phone into my pocket and break into a jog. I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell her. My heart pounds as I charge along the platform, lurching between wayward pushchairs and swerving round two women bickering about who lost the tickets. Come on. Run.

I slither to a halt as the guard raises his arm and blows on his whistle. It’s too late. I’m too late. I gulp for air as I stumble along the platform, my eyes burning as I stare at her train rolling away from me.

Maybe next time.

I shuffle towards the sliding doors, there’s no need to hurry. Not now. Nothing matters anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I slam into a woman darting out of the café. I frown and rub my eyes. I thought…

“I thought you’d gone,” I croak.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, smiling and reaching for my hand.