Page 27 of Say You'll Stay
June invades my space, his proximity an assault on my senses. “Cara, please. We need to talk.”
I recoil, throwing up my shields. “There’s nothing left to say. You made that clear.”
His composure crumbles. “Cara, I—”
“No, June!” The words pour out, each one a dagger. “You don’t get to break me and then waltz back in like nothing’s changed.”
He takes the verbal blows, a penitent accepting his punishment. But it’s not enough. It can never be enough.
“Leave, June. Leave and don’t come back.”
A beat. A nod. And then he’s gone, leaving me in the wreckage of my emotions.
I sink back onto the stool, drained and aching, as the bartender approaches. I wave him off, the drink an empty promise of solace.
Instead, I sit alone, watching the ghost of our past disappear, feeling both shattered and strangely whole.
Outside, the night embraces me, its chill a balm to my fevered skin. Each step is a reclamation, a tiny act of defiance against the hold June has on my heart.
The days blur together, a desperate scramble for normalcy. I lose myself in work, in long walks, in the pages of books that once offered escape. But every smile is a lie, every moment of peace a betrayal of the pain that consumes me.
I throw myself into the dating scene, a frenzied search for connection, for a salve to the loneliness that gnaws at my bones. But each encounter is a bitter disappointment, a twisted mockery of the love I once knew.
There’s Daniel, with his easy charm and quick wit. We arrange to meet for dinner at a cozy Italian place, and I spend hours getting ready, trying to recapture a glimmer of the confidence I once had. But as I sit at the table, minutes ticking by with no sign of him, my phone lights up with a message: “Sorry, can’t make it. Something came up.”
I stare at the screen, a hot flush of humiliation creeping up my neck. The waiter shoots me pitying glances as I pick at my breadsticks, trying to salvage some shred of dignity.
Then there’s Ethan, with his piercing blue eyes and disarming smile. We hit it off over coffee, and he suggests a follow-up date at a trendy sushi bar. I wait outside the restaurant, my heart fluttering with nervous anticipation. Minutes stretch into an hour, and still no Ethan. My phone buzzes: “Running late, be there soon!” But soon never comes, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk, a wilting flower in a too-tight dress.
Each rejection, each no-show, is a tiny cut, a paper-thin slice into my already fragile self-esteem. I begin to wonder if there’s something fundamentally wrong with me, some invisible flaw that drives people away.
The final straw comes with Dale, a manga artist who just returned from Japan. Alex, a mutual friend of June and mine, insists on setting us up. “He’s perfect for you, Cara,” they gush. “Creative, passionate, and he’s got this quiet intensity that I think you’ll love.”
I’m hesitant at first, the wounds of past rejections still raw and stinging. But Alex is persistent, and I find myself agreeing to a coffee date, a tentative step back into the fray.
To my surprise, Dale and I hit it off immediately. We bond over our shared love of art, swapping stories of our creative journeys and the challenges of making it in a field that often undervalues its practitioners. He tells me about his time in Japan, the inspiration he found in the bustling streets of Tokyo and the tranquil gardens of Kyoto.
Over the next few weeks, we go on a series of dates, each one better than the last. Dale is attentive, thoughtful, and endearingly shy. He brings me sketches he’s done of me, his delicate lines capturing the essence of my features in a way that makes me feel seen, appreciated.
One sunny Saturday, we plan a picnic in a private garden, a hidden oasis in the heart of the city. I spend the morning preparing an array of gourmet sandwiches and artisanal cheeses, a bottle of crisp white wine chilling in my picnic basket.
As I spread out the checkered blanket, the scent of blooming jasmine wrapping around me like a gentle hug, I feel a flicker of something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope. Maybe, just maybe, Dale is different. Maybe he’s the one who will finally see me, all of me, and choose to stay.
I settle onto the blanket, the minutes ticking by as I wait for Dale to arrive. Fifteen minutes pass, then thirty. I check my phone, expecting a message about running late or getting caught in traffic. But there’s nothing.
An hour goes by, and the sun climbs higher in the sky, the once pleasant warmth now an oppressive heat. I pick at the food, my appetite gone, my stomach churning with a sickening mix of anxiety and dread.
And then my phone buzzes, a text lighting up the screen. My heart leaps, a momentary surge of relief. But as I read the words, my world comes crashing down around me.
“Cara, I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work out. We shouldn’t see each other anymore. It’s not you, it’s me. I hope you understand.”
I stare at the message, the letters blurring as hot tears fill my eyes. Not me? How can it not be me, when I’m the common denominator in all these failed connections?
I’m the one who’s left waiting, always waiting, for someone to choose me, to see my worth.
With shaking hands, I pack up the untouched picnic, the once appetizing spread now a mockery of my shattered hopes. I leave the garden, the beauty of the surroundings lost on me as I trudge through the city streets, a hollowed-out shell of a woman.
That night, I find myself drawn to our old haunts, the park where June and I once whispered promises and shared dreams. I wander the paths, a ghost in a landscape of memories, until I find myself standing in front of our bench.