Meeting the Woman Who Would Have Been Your Wife

She's sitting in the hotel lobby, waiting. If he doesn't show up, it wouldn't be the first time - it's been five years since they've seen each other, one since they've spoken last. Every interaction before this has been built on a foundation of her waiting up and him backing out. Hell hath no wrath, or so the saying goes.

And to her surprise, he waltzes in. He didn't think he could - god, it's been so long and he can only imagine how furious she is. She seemed so excited and easygoing when they spoke on the phone, but he can feel her emotions like they are his own.

He's practically fucking glowing, the son of a bitch. The years have done him well, and his stride is confident. Like he hasn't spent the last five years apologizing for his grief, his schedule, his mind preventing him from interacting with her outside of the 3am text.

He's been terrified to open up to her. Getting close to her is like touching a live wire, and he's both drawn to it and repelled by it. She knows him better than anybody he's ever met - eviscerated by her gaze and intuition.

She wants to tuck her chin down, shake her bangs in front of her eyes, look in the opposite direction - she's come this far finally and yet she's suddenly desperate for a way out. Or at least a taste of watching the disappointment bloom on him, the same she feels every time he ghosts her. What a sick twist of events.

She's gorgeous. Has she always looked so elegant? Her legs are crossed and her hair flutters ever so gently with the rush of outdoor air. He's been dreaming about this moment but nothing could compare - is this reality or another fantasy? He's second-guessing whether he's awake or not.

He's already seen her, it's no use. And the smile on his face is indescribable. If joy, lust and sadness were capable of a love child, that would be the expression he has on. Her heart sinks into her stomach and she tries to keep a reasonable pace of breathing. Is she actually that upset that he's here?

Suddenly he has an inhuman bounce in his step - his skeleton and the edges of his skin the only thing holding him back from running to her and sweeping her off her feet. God, he could kiss her. Would she let him?

He's standing in front of her, hand outstretched for hers. Damn him and the energy he brings into the room. She reaches back for it and it's taking everything in her not to pull him close, breathe him in, fill her lungs with him. Stopping the stupid grin on her face proves impossible, cover blown. Did his lips always seem so full?

He holds back from catching her in a delicious kiss - later, when the moment is perfect. He can feel warmth trailing out from his chest, down his arms, across his belly. Being with her is pure magic.

They've made plans for drinks and dancing - a mental picture she's only ever daydreamed about, never to occur until today. She listens to him recount work stories, how he's moved so many times because of rent costs, how his mom is doing now. She paints a picture with her words of her parents, her new job, what she's planning next. She feels tension roll off her shoulders listening to him laugh.

He's never been so proud of her before. He's hiding his anguish at missing all of these big moments with her - it should have been them against the world and he knows it now. It was supposed to be him running alongside her, making messes and mistakes and coming back to each other again and again. His mind sees roses, rings, children. All things that should have been his, hers, theirs.

She's spinning in circles on the dance floor, guided by his gentle hands. She's holding her breath when he finally leans in for the kiss they've been itching to have for minutes, hours, days, years. One kiss turns into many more - gentle and slow, fast and needy. The afterglow is full of laughs, tears and apologies. And then they gift each other with the realizing it's too late to mend and build anew. They're 5 years older, and 5 years in opposite directions from each other. The pain is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Dropping her off is torture. Here she is, perfect in her glory, and yet so far out of reach. If anything was a fuck-up in his life, losing her was it for him. It should have, would have been her.

It would have, could have been him.