Sitting on a chair, waiting for him to arrive, I realised that I had no idea why I agreed to meet. I've spent the best part of a year trying to avoid him, trying desperately to protect my heart, trying not to get anyone's hopes up, not mine, not his. The world goes on around me, as I sit in the chair, the espresso I ordered for my unsettled stomach long finished, trembling in both anticipation and fear. 

I've seen him on social media, not as much of a saint as I claim to be, my traitorous heart going thump thump every time, even though I explicitly tell it not to. I try to tell myself that this feeling can't be the word I'm unwilling to utter, the word that can't be true, for a simple reason. 

I'm leaving. In just under three weeks, I'll be on a one way ticket to France, and he'll probably be on a train to his hometown. I curse my dreams for interrupting what could easily have been the best thing to happen to me. 

So I wait, breathlessly, wondering if I did the right thing, wondering if this counted as giving hope. In the end, my traitorous heart won, caving the minute he suggested a meet. 

If only for a last goodbye.