Following

We went out in our senior year of high school, and broke up in our second term of college. The split took place one winter night outside a theater. We were discussing plans for Valentine’s when she said three words: “Let’s break up.”

“Sure.” And so, our romance ended. The two of us switched out from our program, and kept no contact for the longest time.

Some years later, on a cloudy summer day, we crossed paths at La Ronde in Montreal. I was stood up by the love of my dreams, so Tara ditched her friends and spent the day with me. She was done with architecture school, and I was working at a small café, yet it was like nothing ever changed, as if we high school sweethearts awoke from where we lay in waiting. And on the Ferris wheel, our final ride, she asked: “Hey, Gale. Do you still love me?

I thought about that pressing question, and said: “I love the girl I used to know.”

She laughed. “Good. I have a boyfriend.”

“David,” I said. “It’s him. I know it is.”

“We’ll break up soon,” she said. “Nice as he is, it never is the same.”

We parted ways with hugs and kisses, but acted not on her covert suggestion. I called her five months later, and learned she was soon to be a mother to David’s son — my godson. They married when they found out she was pregnant, and figured out their problems as a team. This new development was devastating, but I told her: “Congratulations, Tara. Good for you.” I really meant it, too.

We kept in constant contact ever since. Our families are far apart, but close. I have three daughters of my own. The architect is welcome in our home, whenever she can take a break from work. Her job takes up her weekends far too often, but she makes time to read my newest writing and share it on her social media. Sometimes, I talk to David more than her. He knows about the day in Montreal — we told him everything — but we are friends. He often calls me up for crossword clues and for some small talk on the current news.

This is a happy ending, in a way. I love my fated bride, the love of my dreams; and Tara came to love her husband David. And yet, no love erases any other. She told me back at the amusement park that she knew not why she broke up with me outside the theater on that winter day. Those three words were a test, she said with sorrow. As soon as they came out, she hoped that I would not accept them. Yet, I quickly did. I wanted to respect her honest wishes, but she was not as honest as I thought. Or maybe I was ignorant of what those three words meant for her and me. Imagine if I stopped her with three words of my own: “I love you.”

That never happened, though. Instead, our love, our perfect passion, ended before it started. She wanted me, I wanted her; and yet we lost each other on the way. We were denied our happy ever after.

These days, when Tara Robles comes to mind, I think of all the things I still regret, of all the things I miss from time to time, of all the things I loved to death about her. To me, our love was grey, grey as the day we broke up in a theater parking lot, grey as the day we met each other again, grey as the day she married David Hawthorn, grey as the buildings she designs and builds, grey as the faded ink of crossword puzzles, grey as the years that quickly pass us by.

Twilight is almost over — Dawn approaches. My pen shall end this little fairy tale.

I listen to The Wind at Dawn by Elgar, a song I found when I was in my twenties and carried with me as a vow of sorts. I listen to the lyrics carefully, and hum along off-key to couplet three.

I see it now, the color of our love. I see it with my eyes and in my heart.