It's not over yet.

It isn't over yet.

It's his favourite place. Ours. I learned to visit the bookstores, just as he learned to sit through the movies. Somehow we blended into each other's choices.

And now, all I can hear is the quiet dejection in his voice as he said those words.

It's not over yet. Not now. He is wrong, I was wrong.

The crowds of Sunday shoppers and casually dressed tourists hamper me. I only hope that I am not too late. I only hope he has not changed.

A glimpse and I'm not sure if I imagined it. I follow anyway, hoping that I haven't.

It is him.

I'm sure; with that rigid posture, the hands tucked into his coat, as if protecting himself from the boisterous menace of Summer loiterers. Or maybe it is the world he wants to protect. From himself.

Maybe it is me he is protecting himself from.

I push past the gigglers and the imbeciles. His words, of course. I was never the one for creative insults.

For a moment, I am stopped by the memory of his retreating back, in that same coat, when he walked away from me.

From us.

Not anymore. It's not going to end now. Not like this.

In my moment of inattention, I've somehow lost him.

Again.

Fear, desperation and panic, all set in at once. I need to find him. I need him to let me find him.

For me. For us. Hopefully he wants to be found.

Bastard could be slippery if he wanted to.

Another moment, and I think he wants to be that Bastard.

I've lost him.

A man hurrying somewhere bumps into me from behind, and pushes past with a muttered oath.

I couldn't care less. My chest feels heavy without this added apology, anyway.

Mindlessly, I walk forward, cross the street and everything seems to happen in slow motion around me.

Horns blare and curses galore, but right now, it feels like nothing compared to the sinking feeling in my heart.

I'm not over you yet. My heart refuses to accept that he's gone. I tell my logical thinking to bugger off.

I've stopped at the window of the jewellry store where we bought those ring. My fingers twist the ring around my finger, and my reflection has a twisted bittersweet smile pasted.

The clerk in the store, smiles at me from behind the counter, and it annoys me so much that I want to wipe it off. With my bare hands.

How dare they smile as if everything is alright?

"The world does not revolve around you. Get over yourself."

Those words, so harsh and cruel, because they lacked his anger. They lacked even his customary bite and snark. Because they were true.

At this point, I am my own worst enemy.

No matter what my friends tell me, they are lying anyway. Because he was right. I was too full of myself.

I'm so hysterical, I can see an image of his face in the glass, behind me, interrupted by passers by. I want to laugh, or maybe cry.

Or maybe drown myself.

Only it isn't. My mind playing tricks on me, that is.

He is standing behind me. Watching me.

Watching me watch him.

It's as if the sun has risen on my face, while his remains expressionless as ever.

I'm so nervous, it's a miracle I haven't fainted dead away. The same uncertainty is reflected in my smile as I lock gazes with his reflection.

The world around us is forgotten as we stand there for what seems like eternity, my eyes pleading and his stony.

It's not even been a few moments. Strangely private moments in such a public place. It would not affect me even if we were in the middle of a street.

All I care about is that he has not walked away yet.

I turn, and almost cross my fingers to hope that he won't vanish. I can almost hear the sneer in his voice as he calls me a fool.

I am, I was and I will be. A fool to want him, a fool to need him and a fool to have lost him.

Twice.

I hold out my hand. It is batted by a woman rushing by, laden with shopping bags. I doubt I have heard the curse she utters, or the grimace she sports.

He obviously has, judging by the curl of his lips, a perfect smirk.

At least he's not wearing his mask. More than I expected. Really.

I'm offering my hand, my heart.

I'm offering myself.

In another endless moment, my breath caught in my throat, I wait.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, he takes my hand in his.

The simple gesture says so much. It shows hope. It means another chance.

It means he's forgiven me.

And that's all that matters for now.

I pull back my hand, and him with it, till we are close enough. The softness of his face and the openness in his eyes is all I can remember, or think about.

We head back home, hand in hand.

It's a promise we make. A promise I make.

I will not lose him again.